That sort of power took centuries to gain. She didn't look nearly old enough to have achieved such a status. He had to remind himself mages hardly ever looked their age, especially Higher Level ones. "Then why did they downgrade her to Apprentice?"
"I don't know and it's not important," Aisling hissed in exasperation. "All I know is that you have to be careful around her. Don't antagonise her. Be respectful and—"
"When am I ever not respectful to a Mage?" he asked, unable to keep the resentment from his voice.
"Since you started to talk like that," Aisling snapped.
"Like what?"
"Like one of us."
Marvel didn't flinch at her blunt words, but it was a near thing. He kept his face blank, but he could feel them like knives, burrowing beneath his ribs. But why did he feel hurt? She was right. He'd bargained his way into the Novice class, and Satis knew why the Grandmasters allowed it.
He knew he wasn't one of them.
Yet, the voice in his head savagely insisted, But I will be.
"Look." Aisling's voice was softer this time, a cushion over the truth she spoke. "I know you're a Novice now— I don't know how, and I'm not going to ask because I don't want to make you lie to me even more—"
He winced.
"—but you still don't have a magical centre," Aisling continued. "And your arrays can't take athar, and you got magically exhausted doing a detection spell. And even if you could do magic, these people have decades, centuries of training over you. You can't just challenge Caspian Griffith to a Mage's duel. Before you get hurt or— or something else."
Killed, she meant. As if the worst hadn't happened to Marvel already.
"I'm begging you, Marv." She'd stopped walking at this point, turning to gaze at him with pleading eyes. "Just stop doing things that will get you hurt. Please. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me, at least."
Marvel looked down at her. Her lovely face turned toward him, filled with worry.
But as much as he cared for her, he just couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he was closer in his life than he'd ever been to power.
He knew she wouldn't let it go until he told her he would. What was one more lie in the grand scheme of things?
"Okay," he said. "I'll stop. I promise. Alright?"
The relief on her face made him feel a sharp pang of guilt. In silence, they resumed walking, with Marvel trying not to think about whether Aisling was another sacrifice he might need to make to retain his power.
***
Marvel chose to ignore how Aisling adjusted her hair and shifted her feet as soon as they reached Grimm Boll's front gates.
I shouldn't care anymore, he thought. She made her feelings very clear that night.
He focused on the odd townhouse before him.
Grimm Boll's house had far too many chimneys and only two windows, which wasn't nearly enough for such a large house. The door was enormous, like a giant, gaping mouth on the house's facade. The whole house resembled a face: the two windows were wide-set eyes, the roof a fringe of hair, and the chimneys looked like numerous horns sprouting from the top.
Frankly, it looked a bit monstrous.
Once Aisling seemed satisfied with her appearance, she knocked on the door. It swung open immediately, revealing a dark interior. The scent of smoke wafted out.
Sighing, Marvel followed his friend inside.
Inside, the house was unlike any other he had seen. It resembled more of a vast workshop than a home.
The centre of the room featured a large, roaring forge with flames that changed colours every time Marvel blinked. An anvil stood in front of it, surrounded by various metalworking tools. To the left was a giant loom and a large vat for dyeing cloth. On the right was a press and a potter's wheel. Woodworking tools lay scattered on a long table running the length of the room.
In the far corner of the room were a desk, a table, some chairs, and a bed. The place felt less like a house and more like a grand workshop for every craft imaginable.
Marvel hated it.
Aisling, however, always seemed to love it.
"Grimm?" she called, her voice echoing improbably in the cavernous space. "Grimm, I brought the losslock potion you requested! Where are you?"
There was no reply, and then—
A loud bang echoed, and the entire room was filled with scarlet dust that made Marvel's eyes water.
He and Aisling began coughing and waving their hands to disperse the dust as a short figure emerged from the haze, muttering to himself.
"Didn't work," the figure grumbled. "Must try newt's blood as a bonding agent next time."
"Grimm," Aisling said between coughs, "what in Pelen's name is this? It's awful."
"A little experiment," the man, now visible as the dust settled, waved a hand dismissively. "Master Gavroth ordered a new batch of teletravel powder, and it's not going— oh— oh—" His eyes lit up as he saw Aisling. "Apprentice Aisling! Forgive me. I didn't realise it was— I mean, I hadn't thought— I apologise for the powder— I hadn't expected—"
"That's fine, Grimm." Aisling gave him a sweet smile that made Marvel's face flush. "I didn't announce my visit beforehand—"
"Oh, that's quite alright," Grimm assured her, his face reddening. "Quite alright. I never check my mail anyway, and— ah, I see you've brought young master Marvel with you."
The man's dark eyes fixed on Marvel, cold and unwelcoming. "Or is it Novice Marvel now?"
Marvel observed the man before him: short, with dark skin, dark eyes, and a thick moustache, dressed in the leather aprons and gloves of a blacksmith. His black hair was a wild mess.
Marvel had once understood Aisling's admiration for the Enchanter. Grimm Boll was a maverick, and the Academy frowned upon such relationships. He was also wealthy and highly respected by everyone on Orr who wasn't a Mage.
What had Marvel ever offered Aisling? Absolutely nothing. He hadn't deserved to imagine he had a chance with her, which made his actions the night before his death unbearably foolish.