‘You think it’s magical, then?’ the boy asked, sneering.
‘Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things wrong with you that aren’t magical, but this …’ He gestured to the soaked earth. ‘This seems more in the realm of “things that could go horrifically awry.”’
‘It’s just a little loss of control,’ Dreadaeleon replied as calmly as he could. ‘Magic needs fuel. I am that fuel. I don’t get to decide which muscles it eats away.’
‘That doesn’t seem much like a muscle you should be gambling with,’ Denaos said. ‘What was it that caused it? Too much magic stuff?’
‘Yes, exactly. All the wondrous thought and power that goes into my gift and you’ve boiled it down to “too much magic stuff,”’ the boy snarled. ‘You have a promising future as an archivist for the drunk and simple.’ He glowered disdainfully at the sleepy look in the rogue’s eyes, sniffed at his foul breath. ‘Mostly the drunk.’
‘Well, there’s hardly any need to be snide about it,’ the rogue replied. ‘Really, though, I am a bit curious.’
‘And I’m a bit uncomfortable with where this is heading.’
‘Hush, I’m pontificating.’ The rogue leaned back with an air of scholarly ponder, tapping his chin. ‘Why in Silf’s name, or whatever gods you don’t happen to believe in, would you still be suffering magic-related ailments if you haven’t had need, cause or want to continue using magic for all the time we’ve been here?’
He knows. He knows about the tome, about the scrying, about the stone …
The thought came almost unbidden, and the stiffening of his spine and sudden dripping halt of his flow came completely unbidden. The rogue’s eyebrow rose so slowly, with such arrogant curiosity, that Dreadaeleon could almost hear the muscles behind it creak like a door.
No, he told himself. He knows nothing. How could he?
How could he not? the boy countered himself. It’s not like you’ve been particularly subtle about it. And he has a penchant for sneaking up on people …
That made sense, the boy had to admit. He should have known he couldn’t get far enough away to avoid Denaos.
Still, he told himself, he can’t know much. What could he know? He doesn’t understand how scrying works.
But he could have learned. He could have found out, watched the wizard in his meditations long enough to have discerned that he was sniffing about the island, that he was pulling down more and more seagulls for purposes beyond getting covered in bird stool.
His heart started to beat quicker. How much did the rogue know? Was he aware of the tome’s location? Was he aware that the boy knew? Had he surmised the boy’s plan, to delay their discovery until he could bring himself up to his full strength and find it himself?
He must know; he’s not an idiot, Dreadaeleon told himself. Maybe I should just tell him. He can be persuaded to keep a secret …
No, fool! He reprimanded himself with a mental snarl. Tell him, and he’ll tell Lenk. Lenk will get it and what will you have done? Tattled like a child? They’ll be the great heroes again, adored by her, and you’ll be nothing more than a whiny little brat who had to go running to the men again.
He paused, frowning. Maybe I’m overreacting. They can’t possibly see me like that.
But when have they not? The irritation came flooding back into him with a scowl. They treat you like a match, sparking you and throwing you away at their convenience. You set the fires and they enjoy the warmth. It’s time you proved that your fires shouldn’t be ignored so lightly. You’ve conquered bigger obstacles with magic before. You can do this.
Right, he told himself. I can do this. He grimaced. Right?
‘You’re hiding something,’ Denaos said, angling the accusation like a knife.
‘What makes you so sure?’ the boy replied as smooth as he could manage.
‘You just froze while I was talking you, likely disappearing into some bizarre stream of thought that you’d rather I was not privy to.’ The rogue sniffed. ‘Also, your piss is on fire.’
The smoke filled his nostrils before Dreadaeleon could even think of a reply. He stared down with twofold horror: once to see the stream renewed and twice to see the yellow taint ending in a small blaze that smouldered angrily on the ground. His cry, too, came twice as he leapt backward and sprayed fiery soil across the earth.
‘Good Gods, how do you explain this?’ Denaos leapt from the errant stream.
‘It’s … it’s perfectly natural,’ Dreadaeleon stammered. ‘Well, all right, not natural, but not uncommon. Sometimes fluids get crossed when a wizard channels them through his body, resulting in urine that explodes when exposed to air. Nothing to worry about.’ He nodded sternly, placed his hands on his hips, then looked up at the rogue. ‘So, uh, what do I do?’
‘How should I know what to do about your fluids?’ Denaos said, cringing away. ‘How often does this happen?’
‘Not enough that I know what to do,’ the boy shrieked, gesturing wildly. ‘How do I stop it? What do I do?’
‘Well, don’t point it at me!’ Denaos angled himself sharply behind the wizard, seizing him by the shoulders and directing him toward a nearby bush. ‘There! Just … just close your eyes and think of Muraska. It’ll wear itself out.’
Damn, damn, damn, Dreadaeleon scolded himself mentally. This! This is what happens when I don’t rest! I knew this was going to happen. Well, not this, specifically, but something like this! Oh, I’m so bad at this … His hands twitched about his loincloth, fearful to touch and aim the suddenly lethal spewer. Well … no, it’s fine. Denaos can keep a secret, right? He’ll make me pay for it later, but for now, all that matters is that no one sees—
‘What’s going on?’ a familiarly feminine voice lilted to his ears.
He nearly broke his neck as he contorted it to see over his shoulder. Asper stood, hands on bare hips, her expression a blend of concern and irritation that drifted between the wizard and the tall man standing between them. Dreadaeleon felt his blood run cold, even as he felt a sudden, fiery spurt.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!
‘Watch my back,’ he whispered his plea to Denaos.
‘Better than your front, surely,’ the rogue muttered in reply.
‘Is there something going on here that I should be informed about?’ Asper demanded again, crinkling her nose as she witnessed Dreadaeleon’s activity. ‘Or is this actually as foul as it appears?’
‘Foul?’ Denaos mimicked her indignant stance. ‘What’s foul about it?’
‘He appears to be urinating on a burning bush,’ she replied, fixing him with a suspicious stare. ‘Why?’
‘Dry season.’
‘And Dreadaeleon is …’