That sounded like Sybine.
Briar found her whirling around the fountain, half-empty glass in hand. They rarely spoke, as her aura gave him a toothache like he’d been chewing tinfoil. With the number of people milling around, the auras all blended together, muting Briar’s perception of them. Up close, the protection of the masses lifted, and the bruise-colored malaise of Sybine’s collided with him just as she did. Bodily.
He caught her. “Have you seen Celyn?”
“Briar! Hello!” She had never before looked so delighted to see him.
“Yeah, hello, where’s Celyn?”
“Callum?” she shouted. “Callum Holt? He’s fit, isn’t he?”
“No, Celyn. Kell-in.”
“Oh, Celyn!” Said as though her best friend’s name was an epiphany. “No. Hm, maybe I did? Hard to remember. I think he had a stupid scarf on. It’s nearly summer, I told him.”
“Whereabouts, can you remember?”
Sybine lurched, catching herself on Briar’s shoulder. “Mmm, Green-heath Park, maybe? No, wait! The Raven’s Brew! You know, pub up that-away, nice part of town?”
Briar knew of it. “Are you all right?” This close, her aura made him feel like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in weeks. He couldn’t leave her like this. It was early in the night to be so pickled. She surged upright and waved him off.
Briar took the near-empty glass before she dropped it. “Where did you get this?”
“Made it myself. Why? D’you want any? I have a flask. You’ll never guess where I’ve hidden it.” She procured the flask from between her ample bosom, like pulling a rabbit from a hat—no secrecy charms required. At Briar’s furrowed brow, she laughed. “Don’t worry. I know you don’t team for my bat. Pitch for my team. Swing my way!”
Triumphant, she unscrewed the flask. Briar sniffed it and barely avoided retching. The vile decoction reeked of magic. Enchanted liquors weren’t unheard of or particularly frowned upon in the right doses, but this would do more than let your hair down. Get the balance of liquor and spellcraft wrong, and the resulting potion could render a person impotent, poison their magic well so their spells were all cursed, or make them forget who they were.
Briar loved a party as much as the next person, but too much of this would be dangerous. He’d have scolded Vatii for not intervening sooner, but familiars could only communicate with their particular witch.
“Have a sip, babes!” Sybine slid sideways. Briar caught her and lowered her onto the edge before she fell in the fountain. She put her head between her knees.
He checked around them. Most of the people nearby were drunk or distracted. He slipped a stick of charcoal out of his pocket and pulled up his sleeve. Inky scars covered his arm in a litany of runes, sigils, and magical symbols from mid-forearm to above the elbow. He only lifted the sleeve enough that most remained hidden. Just in case anyone noticed.
Magic didn’t require words or wands—though some witches found they helped. What magic did require was a tithe. The sort of tithe depended onthe spell. A crushed berry to dry your clothes, a feather to make a heavy load lighter, or a buried tooth to help a garden grow. The rarer the tithe, the more powerful the spell.
If you didn’t have the ingredients, there were alternatives.
On his wrist, he drew a rune.
Stuffing the charcoal back in his pocket, he covered the mouth of the flask with his hand, focusing until his well of magic responded like water to the tidal pull of the moon, but sluggishly. More like molasses than water. Electric light fizzled between his fingers. His skin burned under the rune as the magic took a tithe of flesh from him, but he was so used to it he hardly flinched. The magic left behind another midnight-colored scar to join the rest. With a flick of his wrist, his sleeve covered them. Spell finished, he brought the purified flask to his nose and sniffed. The toxic odor had dissipated completely, but the magic had tired him.
He put out a hand to steady himself on a lamppost. The dizziness passed quickly enough, but it was becoming more common with each spell he cast.
Sybine looked up at him quizzically, and he put it out of his mind. He couldn’t tell whether she’d seen him use the flesh tithe, or whether she was only waiting for him to take a drink.
He drank. The alcohol still burned going down, but with a balmy aftertaste of soothing aloe. A counter spell to heal whatever damage the drink had done.
He handed back the flask. “It’s good!”
Sybine beamed and, to his relief, took a swig. The pride in her face flickered. The drink didn’t taste the same, but she was too drunk to place what he’d done. He briefly worried she’d think he’d spiked the drink for nefarious purposes, but she went on chatting nostalgically about their final days in Wishbrooke.
Briar lingered long enough to ensure she was all right before politely extricating himself. “I’ll see you around!”
He headed for the Raven’s Brew. He’d never been inside before. The floor didn’t stick to the soles of his shoes, nor did the music pump through his blood. Celyn was there, drinking from a novelty horn, telling a gaggle of friends tall tales about a prank he’d played on a new apprentice. He looked at ease, lounging in a leather armchair. In his smooth smile and affable posture, Briar understood why they’d wasted so much timetogether, and it made him a little sad to think that this party might be the last they would see of one another.
Celyn caught sight of Briar, and his smile faltered. Some of Briar’s fondness faltered too. That confirmed it: Celyn really had been avoiding him.
While one of the girls elbowed her friend and jibed that it had been she who cleaned up after the prank, Briar sidled up behind Celyn’s armchair.
