Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

As surreptitiously as he could, Milo looked around the room and spied Imrah standing at the edge of the gallery nearest the throne. He expected her to be glaring at him while waiting for a response, or maybe even trying to subtly prompt him, but she wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes were turned upward, fixed on her father. Milo was still struggling with how ghuls emoted, but as he watched, her expression tightening into something hard and angry.

What was she mad about?

Milo found out a second later when the Bashlek stirred from his thoughts, the room still filled with whispers.

“Very well,” Marid said, sighing though there was a gleam in his eyes Milo didn’t like. “It seems clear to me what needs to happen.”

“It does?” Milo asked, his voice sounding loose and drunken to his ears. Dear God, he needed to lie down.

“Of course.” Marid beamed and his gaze swung toward his daughter, who glared back in open defiance. “My daughter has shown an aptitude for instruction. It only seems right that you should begin your tutelage under her instruction.”

A series of sharp sounds in Ghulish that Milo needed no interpretation for came from Imrah’s spot on the gallery.

“Simply overwhelmed with excitement, I’m sure,” the Bashlek said with a forced chuckle to his court, who obliged with Ghulish laughs that sounded even viler when forced.

“I’m h…uh, honored, your majuzty.” Milo slurred as his eyes grew heavier and he leaned harder on Ambrose’s hand. “But I don-don’t want to be any tr’uhble.”

The big man’s fingers tightened, probably more than they needed to, but Milo was past caring. He’d never been this tired in his entire life, and the thought of falling asleep in a room of man-eating monsters didn’t seem such a bad prospect as long as they didn’t wake him up as they devoured him.

“No trouble at all, Magus,” Marid cooed, sounding quite pleased with himself. “I’m afraid you are under a lethargy vex from that ensorcelled club. Have no fear, we’ll see you put right. You can begin your tutelage tomorrow after you’ve recovered. I’m sure my daughter is eager to begin your instr...u...c…”

Milo plunged into a welcoming darkness, a place where nothing hurt and the monsters lurking in the dark were content to prowl silently. It wasn’t precisely peaceful because somewhere deep in his slumbering mind, he knew the monsters both outside and inside his head were still there, but for the moment, they were content to let him be.

Right now, Milo would take that gladly.

11

A Lesson

“We need to get some things straight,” Imrah said. “Think of it as the cultural part of your instruction.”

Milo crossed his arms and nodded slowly. His sleep had been unnaturally deep from the lethargy vex, not to mention the busy day he’d had before. When he’d woken, so weary just lifting his eyelids was a work of herculean strength, Ambrose had ladled curatives down his throat. They were putrid-tasting concoctions, but unfortunately, he had been too feeble to vomit them back up. Even with those, he still felt worn out and hungover, but his new teacher had been insistent, so he’d gone to attend her upon a wide platform of crenelated stone at the rear of the citadel. Below the granite-toothed rim of the platform was a black pool like a miniature underground lake that nestled against the citadel’s wall and was surrounded by smaller manors on all sides.

Milo had a brief impulse to throw himself into the pool to escape his throbbing head and Imrah’s grating voice, but he decided against it. He was too slow, and he was confident that if he tried it, Ambrose would drag him back to start the whole business over.

“I did not want this honor my father has bestowed upon me,” Imrah practically snarled as she paced in front of a series of stone tables. “This is clearly a punishment, or maybe some sort of gambit of his, but you don’t have to worry about that. All you have to worry about are the rules.”

“If they’re so important, why don’t you tell me what they are?” Milo muttered, not particularly caring if she heard.

“What was that?” she snapped, rounding on him.

Milo repeated himself as clear as day, too out of sorts to worry about sparing her feelings.

Imrah stood, shaking with rage, claws flexing as her thin lips peeled back from her fangs. Milo thought she might pounce on him like he thought he recalled her and Fazihr doing yesterday, which now seemed very far in the past. Thinking about it hurt his head, so he settled for staring mildly at her.

She drew in a long, snorting breath and let it out slowly, whistling through her teeth. Slowly she held up her alchemically repaired hand and raised a single sharp digit.

“Rule one,” she began, her voice strained but level. “When we are on this platform, I am your lord and master. As far as you are concerned, I am god within this stony rim. What I say must be obeyed without fail, or you might kill us both.”

Milo had heard instructive introductions like that before. In truth, the one by Training Sergeant Dubiki had been far more compelling and intimidating. Hardly taking a breath, he’d bellowed out a well-rehearsed speech about making soldiers out of scum, complete with enough profanity and vivid imagery that even those who didn’t speak Polish got the picture.

Milo didn’t mention that, but something on his face must have irked Imrah because when her second digit rose, her hand trembled.

“Rule two,” she intoned in a chilly voice a step above a whisper. “You are neither to perform nor research this magic without my express permission. As I’ve said, this is extremely sensitive and dangerous work, and careless action or even careless thought could result in disaster.”

On this point, Milo did take notice.

He remembered the skull lamp responding to his thought to dim without a command and how uneasy that had made