“You’ll have access to all the notes in Highmage Freynan’s office, I’m sure,” Thomil said, hoping he could compel Renthorn to eat up time explaining himself. “What do you need her spellograph for?”
“Well, I’d like to know how she calculated her final coordinates within Tiran so accurately.” Renthorn indicated the glowing Main Magistry building still lighting the skyline as the barrier stretched and rippled behind it. “God knows, Highmage Sabernyn spent a decade getting that precise with his dark magic, and he had the luxury of committing his murders-by-siphoning from his Magistry office, where he could map for his targets.”
“Oh,” Thomil said as though this was new information.
It was true that Thomil and Sciona hadn’t been able to utilize any mapping spells without triggering an unauthorized magic alert, but in the end, they hadn’t needed to. They had determined the coordinates of the Main Magistry building mathematically, based on their combined knowledge of hunting, siphoning, and the layout of the world they lived in. And, in fairness to Highmage Sabernyn, their target had been much bigger than any of his.
“Why would you want such magic, Renthorn?” Mordra demanded.
Renthorn shrugged. “You never know when this kind of thing might come in handy.”
“Well, you’re out of luck,” Thomil said. “Highmage Freynan didn’t actually write down her coordinate calculations.” Because she hadn’t done the final calculations. Thomil had, and he worked in his head.
“What remains of her work is in there”—Thomil nodded to Sciona’s travel case, lying open between himself and the highmages. If he could just get Renthorn to put his hands inside the luggage—maybe even just kneel close enough to it—the cylinder could incapacitate him. Then Thomil could probably handle Mordra the Younger.
“It’s mostly notes,” Thomil said, “scrapped drafts, but you could likely deduce plenty from it if you care to have a look.”
“Mmm.” Renthorn tilted his head and called Thomil’s bluff. “I’ll pass.”
Maybe he had spotted the red cap of a cylinder among the papers and recognized the device as one of the custom conduits Sciona had deployed against him in the library. Maybe he had just picked up the lie in Thomil’s voice.
“Instead, I think you’re going to tell me where that spellograph has run off to.”
“I don’t know, Highmage.”
Renthorn considered Thomil for a moment, an amicable smile hanging on his lips while cruelty animated his eyes. “You know, I should be thanking Sciona Freynan. She’s given me the opportunity to try out all these wonderful combat spells I never would have had the chance to enjoy outside a state of martial law.” Renthorn shifted his grip on his staff as his smirk widened. “A while back, I figured out a way to siphon a creature with a touch of my staff and a verbal command. Only, it’s not a quick siphon like Blight. It goes as slow as I tell it to. Until last night, I’d only tested it on animals, but it turns out to work beautifully on humans. Would you like to see the muscles in your own arms, Kwen? What about your ribs? Your own beating heart?”
“Renthorn,” Mordra said weakly. “This is too much!”
“No, Tenth.” Renthorn touched the tip of his staff to Thomil’s chest. “This is the Light of Truth.”
Thomil blinked down at Renthorn’s staff and found that an eerie calm had come over him. He knew he would scream when it started. His father had screamed. Arras had screamed.
“Start talking, Kwen. The pain will stop when I have what I need.”
“Then this is going to take a while,” Thomil said dryly. “I don’t know where the spellograph is.”
There would be no shame in screaming, Thomil told himself. Loud suffering was exactly the sort of diversion Renthorn couldn’t resist. And Thomil had no doubt that he could stay alive—and suffering—long enough to buy Carra a chance to survive.
Sciona was proof that hope didn’t have to mean living to the end of the story; for Kwen like Thomil, how could it? Carra’s life was worth fighting for, whether fighting meant dying here or stubbornly living on. Maeva had understood that: that it was worth dying at the border of salvation if you could push your love before you over the finish line.
“Maybe you really don’t know,” Renthorn smiled, “but I will extract your best guesses before you die.”
“You can try.”
Renthorn opened his mouth to verbally activate his staff when—
“Hey, Archmage Supreme!” a voice called from above.
Thomil looked up just as Carra launched from the ledge of the water tower. She had waited a split second for Renthorn to turn toward the sound of her voice. As she dropped, she slammed the spellograph into his upturned face. Gravity put the heavy machine straight through his skull.
Thomil started, and Mordra screamed as blood, keys, and brain matter burst in all directions.
“Gods, Carra!” Thomil staggered back with shock. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping the tribe together,” she said as she drew herself up, covered in blood.
Gurgling on the ground, Renthorn twitched as if to rise. Carra stomped on what remained of his head with a terrible crunch, and the mage’s reedy body went still.
“Carra!” What is wrong with you? part of Thomil wanted to demand, as Mordra had demanded of Renthorn.
But as she stood over Renthorn, Arras was in the set of her shoulders. In her, the Caldonnae lived, and that was Thomil’s only mission.
“Alright,” he breathed, “now, we really need to run.”
“Not if we kill the witness.” Steel hunter’s eyes turned to Mordra, and Carra unsheathed the knife at her belt.
At the flash of metal, Mordra shifted his grip on his staff. Carra had started forward, but Thomil moved faster than either of them. He tackled Mordra at full force, sending them both rolling over the concrete rooftop. The staff clattered away as Thomil slammed the slighter man down and drew his fist back, heedless of the pain in his bruised ribs.
“Please! Please!” Mordra was gasping, racked with sobs. His hands were open in surrender, forearms over his face so he wouldn’t have to look his death in the eye. “I wasn’t going to kill her! I swear!”
“Forgive me for not taking the word of a mage.”
“I didn’t know!” the highmage sobbed shrilly. “About the Otherrealm—or-or Renthorn’s plan—or Freynan’s! Any of it! Please!”
He was telling the truth, Thomil realized. Not because he had any particular confidence in the Tenth’s honesty but because it made sense; Jerrin Mordra had been as new to the High Magistry as Sciona, and he wasn’t the intellectual powerhouse she was. He never would have figured out the truth on his own, and, based on their interactions, it didn’t seem that Mordra the Ninth, Cleon Renthorn, or any of the mages in the Tenth’s circle had been particularly open with him.
“Oh, Father!” Mordra whimpered into his hands. “Father, forgive me, I didn’t know!”
“This again?” Carra said in disgust. “Do they all cry so much?”
“Please, Kwen.” Mordra’s voice had assumed an emptiness through the shudder of his sobs. “Tommy. Please… kill me quickly.”