To Catch A Sorcerer

Don’t panic.

Don’t piss off Killian.

This was Gray’s damn mantra until he got what he needed to draw the soldiers away from Krydon.

Killian’s scarred face looked off. Perhaps it was the dark smudges underneath his dark gaze or the stale bristle on his clenched jaw.

Even the wolf fur on his collar looked less … immaculate.

Gray had really messed up by losing control earlier.

But, he remembered, Killian had been strained since Gray woke up this morning.

There were a whole bunch of things prodding at Killian’s restraint, including the fact that Sorena had run away. Gray had piled on top of it by throwing his magic at him.

Killian manoeuvred Gray so he was standing by the blackboard. Gray stared over the heads of the men, leaning his weight on his good leg, and determined to not let Codder - anyone - see how hard his heart was hammering.

‘Physical markers of a mage,’ said Killian. ‘Pickering, go.’

Pickering went red in the face, his blue eyes wide. ‘Um, bright eyes. Bright nails. Hair that grows too quick, and double lash line.’

‘Physical markers of a sorcerer,’ said Killian. ‘Brown?’

Gray flitted a glance at Killian. His shoulders were tight. His scarred face was controlled. Killian must’ve felt Gray’s eyes because he met them with his own dark gaze.

Brown asked something, something about bright eyes. Gray ducked his head, not registering the talk around him, straining to keep his breath slow.

Stay cool.

‘It can be a shared trait,’ Killian said, ‘yes. What else?’

‘Uuh,' said Brown, 'extra molars, and thick nails, and three crowns in their hair.’

‘Correct,’ said Killian, scribbling this onto the blackboard. ‘But, here’s where you run into trouble. Sorcerers - and mages - have developed a defence mechanism.’

Killian waited, an air of expectancy filling the room. When the silence went on for a bit too long, Killian clicked his tongue. ‘Turn your damn brains on, soldiers. What could the defence mechanism be?’

‘Huge power?’

‘A love of violence.’

‘Psychopathy.’

‘No.’ Killian let out a quiet huff. ‘We’re talking about physical markers - what defence mechanism could they have developed? Look at the kid.’

Gray fought down a throbbing flush as several sets of eyes stared at him. He could feel the gazes on his face, his skin, his clothes. They were taking in more detail about his appearance than he’d ever want anyone to see.

There was birdsong outside the window, and this was the loudest thing as the soldiers looked over Gray and glanced at each other. Codder squinted down at his workbook.

‘He,’ ventured Pickering, ‘looks ordinary. I wouldn’t look at him twice if I passed him in the street.’

‘Good,’ said Killian. ‘Why would this be an advantage to him?’

Pickering opened and closed his mouth. His blue eyes swept back and forth from the blackboard to Killian, searching. ‘He doesn’t have his magic yet?’

‘He has his magic,’ Codder said.

‘No he doesn’t,’ said Pickering.

‘I’ve seen it,’ said Codder, lounging back in his chair.

‘We’ve all seen it,’ said Pickering, ‘all he does is bloody glow, it’s not him doing magic-’

‘He does,’ said Codder.

‘Oh, fuck off, Codder, he does not, not really.’

‘How do you get through life not knowing shit, Pickering?’ said Codder.

‘Why are we all sitting here with a sorcerer in the room if he has his magic?’ said Pickering.

‘Because he’s a little weeny,’ said Codder, leaning forward and his mouth settling into a curl of contempt. ‘He’s already done magic today and he’s exhausted, and the reason why he looks like a normal human is because mages and sorcerers are bad at hand-to-hand combat without specialised training-’

Killian cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

Gray clenched his jaw, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and struggled to gain control of his breath.

Slowly, Codder leant back again in his chair. Pickering turned his watchful blue gaze back onto his Major.

‘Sorcerers,’ said Killian, ‘like mages, are most vulnerable when they’re young. Their access to their power is extremely limited. Their access to their power and the control of this access increases with every ryece. Many will be camouflaged as a basic human until they start developing their claws, so to speak.’

Killian tapped Gray under the chin. ‘Kid, look up.’

Gray chewed the inside of his lip, determinedly looking over the heads of the men.

Dark fury was rising within him. It scraped at his walls.

Very carefully, he pushed it back down.

It’s just words, he told himself. Ignore it. Stay cool.

Stay out of the prison.

‘This one,’ said Killian, ‘so far, has two subtle but typical mage markers - hair and lashes. No typical sorcerer markers yet. But, sorcerers and humans can sometimes - rarely - have hair that grows quickly. They can have a double lash line. While those traits are typical to mages, they aren’t exclusive to mages. Without more, this doesn't tell us anything definitive.’

One of the men let out an expletive. ‘That makes it bloody hard, Major.’

‘Yes, it does.’

Gray fisted his hands. The slightest tremor ran through him, with the effort to keep his fury at bay.

Killian’s scared hand was on Gray’s jaw. ‘Getting grumpy, kid?’

‘No,’ said Gray tightly.

‘Breathe, you fucking fool.’

Silence sung.

Killian’s sharp rebuke in front of the men felt like a slap to the face.

He must’ve sensed this because his grip tightened painfully.

Don’t touch me, Gray wanted to snarl.

But, he couldn’t.

He mustn’t.

Something must’ve shifted in Gray’s bearing, though, because Killian’s whole body tightened. Killian’s chained-down control was turning into something much more fragile.

Sorena’s words from earlier echoed in Gray’s mind.

Killian’s a wolf-shifter.

Gray wondered exactly what it took for a man to transform into a wolf.

Unaware, Codder's drawl reverberated from across the room. Gray didn’t hear him over his pulse beating in his ears. Neither, apparently, did Killian.

‘Excuse me?’ Killian said.

Codder inched forward in his seat. ‘I have more questions, Major.’

Killian dragged his gaze away from Gray and pinned Codder with it.

The moment stretched.

‘I’ll be quick, Major,’ said Codder.

No one moved.

’My friend Roderick …’ Codder trailed off.

Killian’s teeth were bared.

His grip on Gray’s chin trembled.

An unspoken understanding seemed to be rippling through the men. Some of them drew back in their hard chairs.

No one spoke.

Killian’s trembled harder. Gray’s eyes watered. An instinct deep within him told him to stay still.

He pushed down his anger, like clamping the lid down on an overflowing kettle of boiling water.

The sounds of late dawn - birdsong and people outside in the square - couldn’t pierce the airlessness in the room.

Even Codder didn’t dare to speak again.

‘I’ll ask the questions,’ said Killian, releasing his grip and grinding out the words with a huge effort. ‘Listen. Answer. That's how it'll be in the verbal in your exam. Codder, take notes if you want to learn.’

There was a rustle as all the men flipped through their workbooks and started scribbling.

Gray refrained from rubbing his jaw. He made himself stand stock still, his head bowed.

‘What do you do,’ said Killian, his words coming out as though it was against his better judgement, ‘if you come across a suspected sorcerer who hasn’t come into any definitive markers yet?’

The room was quiet. The men were pale and still.

‘First, you check for parents and collectors,’ said Killian softly. ‘Before you do anything. Before you make any kind of move. You do not want an angry sorcerer mother unleashing her fury. She will kill you, she’ll kill your team, she’ll kill anyone in her way, and it’ll be an ugly death.’

Killian turned to write on the board. The sound of the chalk scraped against Gray’s ears.

‘And you absolutely do not want a sorcerer collector making you a target. A sorcerer who’s gone into collection mode is … possessive and dangerous. These bastards will straight up steal an apprentice from his or her home if they can’t convince the child to willingly leave. If you attempt to unwittingly take a collection from a sorcerer, they will turn things very - ah - personal. They’ll hunt down and kill your whole family, and they’ll make you watch.’

The men were utterly silent.

They’d stopped writing in their books.

A few had their mouths open, aghast.

‘The reigning theory is this is a vestige of the fey in them. There certainly are some parallels with what we know about fey culture. Watered down, of course, over millennia. They’re nowhere near as dangerous as the fey. We don’t fuck with the fey. First rule of the army, yes?’

One of the men dropped his book.

‘Sorry,’ the man muttered, picking up his book.

‘If the way is clear, you get your suspected sorcerer to show their power,’ said Killian. ‘Or, as Pickering so deftly put it, you make them glow.’

Pickering leant forward in his chair, his mouth twisted in unease. ‘Major, that was a slip of the tongue, I didn’t mean-’

But, Killian cut him off. ‘A sorcerer’s level of power is going to far outstrip a mage’s. But, getting a sorcerer - or mage - to show their power is easier said than done, especially if they’re young or untrained. This one is both. Any ideas what you’re going to do in such a situation?’

Codder raised his hand. Every eye was on him. ‘You made him flip his lid, Major.’

Gray forced his gaze onto the wall of wanted posters. Then, to avoid staring into Wilde’s dead eyes, he locked his gaze onto the view out the window. The pale sky was streaked with pink and orange.

In.

Out.

‘Yes. Induce panic.’ The squeaking of chalk shattered the quiet, as Killian wrote on the board. ‘The official tactic is to induce panic, then settle them. Panic, then settle. Over and over. It shakes loose their hold on their magic.’

Gray’s insides were stretched tight. Words and tendrils of fire were sneaking and crawling through his body, and it was taking most of his focus to chase them down and contain them.

‘It’s risky,' Killian was saying. 'If you don’t know what you’re doing you can wind up, at best, seriously injured, and, at worst, dead in the middle of a smouldering building. If you’re going to do this to a potential sorcerer, you better be ready to bring them right back down after their power’s come up to the surface.’

Gray heard Killian ask, as though echoing over a great distance, ‘How do you measure the level of power, men?’

‘You get them tested by a licenced mage or alchemist, Major,’ said a man from the back of the group.

‘Oh,’ said Killian, raising his eyebrows, ‘you think your general or your king will assign you a licensed mage or alchemist for your team, as a mere lieutenant? And they will give you the coin for a very, very costly test? How … naive.’

Quiet.

‘That’s not a quality we value in Lismere’s army,’ said Killian.

‘Major, I-’

‘Dismissed, soldier,’ said Killian.

‘What, Major?’

‘Leave, Emwell. I’m not putting forward a soldier for the lieutenant exam, just to have you embarrass me with your naivety. You’re not ready. Go.’

Emwell’s breath hitched. He was a man Gray had never seen before, with a mop of curly black hair and a hooked nose. Sweat beaded his brow. He packed up his workbook and left, the back of his neck flushed deep.

‘You’re in the field,’ said Killian to the remaining men. ‘You don’t have a mage soldier, let alone a licensed master mage to test your prisoner. You don’t have a spare several thousand ardents in your allowance. You’ve made your potential sorcerer reveal his power. Now, how do you measure it?’

Not a single man even glanced up from writing notes in their workbook. Each head was fastidiously down, avoiding Killian’s dark gaze.

‘The light,’ Killian said. ‘If you need to close your eyes against it, that’s generally classed as a dangerously high level of magic.’

‘And that’s what he has, sir?’ said Codder.

There was a tight beat.

‘Obviously,’ said Killian.

Gray waited for Killian to boot Codder out for asking a simple question.

He paused, then paced.

‘There are no other ways to tell, that we know of,’ said Killian. ‘Our knowledge of sorcerers is sparse, due to the fact they’re not exactly forthcoming about their ways, and their rarity. It’s unlikely you’ll come up against too many sorcerers, thank Clochaint.’

To Gray, quietly, ‘kid, go sit down.’

Gray stumbled over to his spot by the window.

‘Now, how are you going to induce panic in a sorcerer - keeping in mind sorcerers have precious few attachments and will coldly slit the throat of any stranger in their way - and how are you going to calm them down?’

Gray glared down blindly at his workbook. He clenched the pencil in his fingers, trying to master himself. He barely registered the sounds of Killian and the men talking, as they got more and more engrossed in the topic.

Gray didn’t know how much time had passed. His gaze was trained on his blank workbook.

Someone cleared their throat way too close to him.

Gray jolted.

Killian was crouched in front of him.

The man needed a damn bell or something.

‘They don’t teach you how to write in these northern schools?’ said Killian.

Gray frowned. Behind Killian, Pickering nodded his head towards the blackboard.

Killian had drawn on the board. Gray blinked, struggling to read the Lismerian.

It was a navigation problem, about the speed of a convoy crossing a desert, to get to a base two hundred miles away, and with a contrasting side wind.

They’d moved on from sorcerers.

Coolness inched through the heat inside Gray.

‘You want me to …’ said Gray, fumbling with sweaty fingers as he adjusted the pencil in his iron grip.

‘Do I want you to work out the problem, instead of sitting there like a lump? Yes, kid.’

Killian got up abruptly and stalked off to prowl between the men.

Gray had done problems just like this only days ago for his mathematics exam. He worked it out, checked it over for mistakes, and then sat back, staring at the patch of cloudy sky visible through the window, his shoulders hunched.

The scratch-scratch-scratch of pencils filled the room, as though a nest of mice had moved in. Killian prowled between the chairs, his boots thudding softly against the carpet. He didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound beyond his footsteps, but his presence rippled like a cold breath on the back of the neck.

‘Time's up,’ Killian said.

All at once, pencils froze mid-scratch, soldiers lifting their heads.

‘Johnson.’ Killian stretched out his hand.

Johnson’s fingers trembled as he handed over his workbook. Killian flipped it open, his eyes scanning the pages with mechanical precision. Then, a slow curl of disgust crept across his face.

‘No.’ He flung the workbook back at Johnson with a flick of his wrist, like tossing away a piece of spoiled meat. ‘Have you even been studying, soldier?’

‘Yes, Major.’

Killian moved on, his boots thudding again, slow and deliberate.

‘Mayver,’ he said.

Mayver grinned, trying too hard to look confident. He practically shoved his workbook into Killian’s hand, as if expecting praise. Killian barely glanced at it before his lip curled.

‘Wrong.’

Mayver’s grin faltered, but Killian was already moving on.

‘Pickering.’

Pickering swallowed hard, his knuckles white as he handed over his workbook. Killian snatched it, gave it a quick glance, then let out a low growl from deep in his throat. His jaw clicked, the sound like bones grinding together.

‘Very wrong.’ He didn’t even bother tossing the book back this time—just threw it at Pickering’s chest, the pages fluttering in the air. ‘You’re supposed to be using your free time to study.’

Gray's heart started to hammer. He buried his face in his workbook, eyes darting over the scrawl of words he’d scratched out.

Next to him, Codder took the blow. Killian’s voice dripped with venom as he tore into the man’s work.

‘You know navigation, Codder, really?’ Killian said, voice soft. ‘Convoys sure as hell don’t march a hundred miles per hour and how the damn did you end up in the middle of the Forbidden Sea? Did you even think before you wrote this?’

Codder stiffened under the assault, but Gray didn’t hear the rest. His ears were buzzing, the sound of his own blood rushing as Killian’s shadow fell over him.

‘Kid.’

Gray froze, his heart a wild, caged thing inside his chest. Killian bent down, snatching the notebook from his wooden fingers before Gray could offer it. Killian’s eyes swept over the page. For a long, agonising moment, he said nothing. His shoulders tensed, his jaw worked, and Gray braced himself for the explosion that would come next.

But Killian just stared. Then, in a voice tight with something Gray couldn’t place, he said, ‘Yes.’

He shoved the notebook back at Gray, harder than necessary, and stalked off without another word.

Gray didn’t dare look up. His hands shook as he clutched the workbook to his chest, but beneath the fear, a strange flicker of pride burned in his gut.

As Killian wrote down the solution, he broke a piece of chalk, he was pressing so hard. Then, a second.

Gods.

Killian wrote up another problem. Same thing, but with a horse rider crossing a moor.

Gray worked at the problem with the other men, silently scratching in their workbooks. Gray’s hands were beginning to tremble again. He thought, perhaps he should work mistakes into his solution.

‘Griffin!’

Gray started. Killian had written another problem on the board. It was about a dragon rider flying in a crosswind to a certain destination. It was more complicated. Killian pointed at it. ‘You do this one. Understood?’

Gray swallowed over his dry tongue. ‘Yes.’

‘You know how to start it?’

‘Uh, I … find the angle …’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good. Try it.’

‘You want me to try that one, too, Major?’ said Codder.

Killian breathed in, precise and controlled. ‘When you prove to me you have more intelligence than a damn child, soldier, you can try this one.’

Pickering snorted. Then, with a scared glance at Killian, hurriedly returned to his work.

As soon as Killian turned his back, Codder pierced Gray with a glance.

He sucked his bottom lip, his shadowed gaze darker than Gray had ever seen it.