The Consumption of Magic (Tales From Verania 3)

“Why haven’t you asked me about him? About what he looked like? About how he… was,” I finished lamely.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Randall said, his tone brooking no argument. “Anything that he was is gone. He’s not the man I used to know. He hasn’t been for a very long time.”

And I thought maybe he was lying. “But—”

“Enough, Sam.”

I bowed my head. “As you wish. How does it work? Consuming magic.”

“Magic is part of you. It’s mixed into your blood. It moves in your brain. And for you, it is in your heart, that which has been lightning-struck. Magic isn’t sentient, though it can sometimes feel as if it is. There is magic in many things. The creatures around us. The earth. The trees. Dragons and elves and fairies. The Darks. It’s not universal. It is not all-encompassing.”

“There are colors,” I said. “Green. And gold.”

He nodded. “Sometimes. That’s how it manifests for you. It came to you in a time of great need, when you were scared. When those boys chased after you and cornered you in the alley.”

I gave him a wry smile. “Ended up with one of those boys.”

“Curious,” he said, “how intertwined your fates are.”

For a brief moment, the image of Ryan upon a slab, white and cold in death, his sword clasped against his chest, was all I could see. But I pushed through it.

Randall, of course, didn’t miss a thing. “That. There. What was that?”

“Just… a memory.”

“Today,” he said. “I’ll allow this today. Because of what is left to discuss. Tomorrow, Sam. Everything else begins tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Funny how you take it that way.”

I had to give him that.

“Eating your magic would combine his power with yours,” Randall said bluntly. “It would be ripping it from your body and, in essence, tearing your soul in two. Magic wielders are not defined by their magic, but it helps to make up who they are. Take that away from them, they become hollowed out. A shell. A body cannot continue as a shell. It ends in death. And there is nothing that can be done to stop it.”

I felt ill at the thought. “Have you ever seen it done?”

“No.”

And I knew I was treading on dangerous ground when I asked, “Did you ever consider doing it to him? Before you banished him?”

“There was a moment, yes. But it was fleeting. I don’t think anyone is capable of maintaining their sanity when consuming another’s magic. The sheer rush of power one would receive seems like it would obliterate a mind. And it’s dark, Sam. Taking another’s magic. You don’t get to come back from that. Ever. Once you have consumed another’s soul, your own is lost to eternity.”

“And you’re sure this is what he wants?” I asked. “It doesn’t seem like… too much? Even for him?”

He hesitated, but it was brief. His fingers twitched again, but then he pushed a Grimoire toward me. It was not his. It was not my own.

It was Myrin’s.

“Page six hundred and forty-seven,” he said.

My hands were on the book even before he’d finished speaking. A twisted thrill ran through me at the contact, and even though I wanted nothing more than to flip through it page by page, taking my time, drinking in all of it, tasting the magic within the pages, I turned to page six hundred and forty-seven as directed.

I wished I hadn’t.

It was near the back of the book. I’d been taught early on that the backs of Grimoires, the last few pages, were areas better left alone. It was meant to be a reminder of what was truly black about the world. Dark magic that shouldn’t be attempted by anyone. I’d seen some of the back pages in Morgan’s Grimoire, spells that had called for innocence, for living creatures filled with inherent goodness. Unicorns and fairies. The blood of dragons. The heart of an elf. These were never meant to be put into practice but instead were written d

own in theory that potentially, something good could come of it. A counterspell. A resistance. Something that could be an opposite.