“I can’t do anything while hooked to it.”
I nod slowly. “So, in theory, if Ansel draws from an amulet while you’re still tied to it, he should be able to manipulate yourinternalmagic directly.”
“Correct,” Rowan says. “That’s what we’re hoping, anyway.”
“So, it’s kind of what we did when we turned you back, but in reverse. You will be connected to the pendant this time instead of me.”
“That’s right,” Ansel says. “Though mages use holding amulets, not dust pendants.”
“Would it be helpful if I connected to a dust pendant as well?”
“It won’t be necessary. I should have access to your magic through Rowan—assuming you two are truly bonded.”
“We are,” Rowan says grimly.
“All right—let’s try it,” Ansel says. “If nothing else, it will give me a chance to examine your bond. Rowan, begin siphoning into an amulet while I drain my magic, and we’ll begin.”
Ansel chooses a wand from the stand on the side table, spells the perimeter of the room with what I suspect is a noise ward, heads to the large fireplace, and points at the charcoaled bricks. He mutters something, and then a stream of red-hot fire erupts from the tip of his wand like a firecracker. It screams at first and then quiets to the gentle roar of a flame thrower.
Last time, I was mostly unconscious during this step. But I’m fully coherent now, and I stumble back, startled by the heat and intensity of the depletion process.
Meanwhile, Rowan pulls an empty glass amulet from his pocket. Wand in hand, he works a spell, and purple magic begins filling the bottle.
I gasp when I feel the internal tug.
Rowan looks up. Loud enough I can hear him over Ansel’s magic, he says, “Can you feel it?”
“Yeah.” I lean against the workbench.
“When Russell was pulling your magic, I felt it as well. It’s subtle but present.”
When siphoned, my magic is a gold dust, but Rowan’s looks like a viscous liquid.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No more than a blood draw hurts a human.”
A minute later, Ansel’s flames die down. The sorcerer stumbles to the workbench, breathing hard, close to passing out. “Let’s do this.”
“Why didn’t you just send your magic into a cache?” I ask him.
“Takes too long.” He clenches his eyes like he’s dizzy. “I’d need a dozen amulets.”
Rowan eyes the sorcerer. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Ansel straightens. “Let’s hurry before my magic begins to regenerate.”
“Would that be a problem this time?” I ask. “You’re not performing a spell on Rowan.”
“Yes, but his magic would be impossible to manipulate if mine were in the way,” Ansel says. “Mine would repel it, and I’d never be able to get a good look at what’s going on.”
“Is there enough to work with?” Rowan asks.
Ansel contemplates Rowan’s amulet. There’s barely anything in it. The thick liquid magic moves like molasses.
“Did you work the spell correctly?” Ansel asks. “It’s siphoning slower than usual.”
“It always siphons this slowly.”
