Red's Story - Possession

Red finished drawing the circle of chalk, then sharply bit back a sneeze.

He held off disaster on two accounts: the first was that disturbing the circle in any way while he was in it meant that he would have to start again. You couldn’t take chances when summoning greater spirits: the tiniest oversight, the smallest smudge or ignored line break could mean catastrophe—possession, death, or worse. And it had already taken him an hour to get things ready; his long legs were cramping, and he was sweating in the cramped, dusty broom closet. The idea of starting over again—because of a sneeze—made his eyes burn.

The second deferred disaster was that the prefect patrolling outside could not hear him. Red had placed a ward of silence and invisibility around the closet door so that light and noise could not leak into the corridor outside—but psionic magic was not his strong point, and it was always tricky performing such spells in a school full of other Mages. He’d seen another student, Raven, dispel such wards with a blink, and even his friend Imarim complained of getting migraines whenever a glamour was nearby. So he didn’t have much time, even with the ward.

He took a breath and turned back to his volume, written in Mizunth, an even older and more obscure script than Magid. The title, faded and flaking, glittered dimly at him through the light of his single candle.

The Intricacies of Calling a Greater Spirit

Red let out a shaky breath, then told himself to get it together. Much of the worst was over: his highest chances of getting caught had been when he’d stolen this volume from the forbidden section of the library, and he’d already pulled that off without a hitch. He’d memorized the section’s location and layout for weeks, getting Pan to turn into a moth and scope out the books in little fluttering dashes. Then, in the dead of night, he’d chanced translocating to the correct shelf, yanking the volume off, and then translocating back to his room in a flash. There hadn’t even been time for his sheets to settle back onto his bed.

Now he ran his fingers over the faded print, reviewing the necessary steps and spellwords in his head. They had just learned how to summon spirits in Magister Elovira’s class, Eastern Dynamic Diabolism, Symbolic Research, and Fundamental Legerdemain. It was a Summoning class for people who weren’t Summoners; as such, they’d practiced on calling tiny will-o’-wisps and spooklights, and even one of those had combusted in the middle of class.

And this… this was a greater spirit of knowledge. One of the most powerful spirits he could summon. He had to tread very carefully.

Red held his palm over each chalked symbol, breathing in the accepted pattern to infuse each mark with his will. He held the first spellword in his mind, and then pushed his will outward, manipulating it in just the right way to activate his circle and draw him between the realms of flesh and spirit. He worked like this for half an hour, holding the next spellwords in his mind, sketching complex runes in the air, shaping the positions of his fingers just so. The air tensed, pressing against his skin as the summoning built itself, mark by mark, word by word, sign by sign.

The energy flickered and built just at the corner of his eye, brighter than candlelight, shot through with iridescent flashes of gold, crimson, violet, green. The wall between Blest and the Spirit Realm shifted, just a little, letting some of that aethereal light spill through.

Red tried not to stare, much as he wanted to look the phenomenon over, poke it with his mind. It wouldn’t do for him to be distracted; you had to have the utmost concentration to pull a living spirit through to your side of the worlds.

“Endymion, spirit of knowledge, I name thee,” he said. “I summon thee. I charge thee to appear now before me, in this circle. Endymion, follow the sound of my voice, a thread between worlds, and heed the call. Come.”

He meant into his summoning circle, the one opposite of his own; he was in his own seal of protection to keep the spirit from pouncing on him if there was a mistake in the other ward. There was silence, for a moment. Red wondered if he’d read the Mizunth wrong, or if Endymion was dead, after all. The book was so old that the spirits it named could have all been dissipated long ago.

He reached for the plate he’d brought into his circle, heaped with food pilfered from the kitchens. He held out an apple and said, “Endymion. You are hungry, and I have food.”

A light flickered inside the summoning circle, so brief that it looked like the muted flash of lightning inside a stormcloud. I am here, Mage-whelp. Give me food.

Red nearly collapsed with relief; he laughed, shakily. So it had worked. He’d wondered if Endymion would turn its nose up at the offer: it was an old, old spirit, having served many of the Mage masters of the past, and the book had said that it was eccentric and arrogant besides. He’d worried that a mundane offering of food would seem paltry to it—but whatever spirits were, they all seemed to be appeased by one thing: the allure of the corporeal. They wanted the world of the flesh, of sensation and experience. The world they came from seemed to be a confusing, formless ocean, where essences all mixed together without boundary, and action and thought could not be pulled individually from the great mass. The spirits craved the anchoring of a form, a physical vessel that they could inhabit and make theirs—or even the fleeting experience of making a memory, tasting wine, feeling sand. This was how Mages struck bargains with them, if the spirits couldn’t be bound through sheer power and force of will alone: the spirits were often happy to be anchored to this world, to be given a solid and constant shape, and they would perform services in exchange for the gift of a more permanent form. Or for a memory that they could take with them, back into the boundless ocean of the Spirit Realm.

Red was not powerful enough to control a greater spirit like Endymion on his own—at least not yet. And he was not seeking to bind it into a more permanent vessel, to give it shape in exchange for its powers: he would almost certainly be caught by his teachers, then. He only had food, and it seemed like the spirit was content with that.

He held the plate back from the edge of his circle. Endymion shifted, a flicker of light testing and probing the edges of its own circle, looking for breaks or misspelled sigils. The circles both held, and Red smiled. “I charge you to answer: are you the Endymion of Pyrony the Great? Are you the Endymion who served the prophets of olden times, who built the Tower of Pley?”

The spirit ballooned suddenly, its shape and light constrained by the invisible dome of the ward like a man in a too-tight suit. I am Endymion! it boomed, its voice rattling through Red’s skull. I am the Silver Shroud, master of the stars and moon, advisor to wizards and ancient kings. I helped build the walls of Uruk. I watched over Ptomis in his cradle, and then in his grave. I saw Old Stroud fall to stones while the wolves fed on its people. I am Endymion! So I charge you in turn, whelp. Who are you to summon me?

Red’s lips quirked. Endymion expected a quivering first-year, a student about to wet his pants. That was what all the bluster was for—but you never gave your true name to a spirit. Not until you’d either bound it to your will or earned its service with a pact.

He held out his offering plate. “I need your knowledge, Endymion. I will give you the food in trade.”

Endymion paused, thinking it over. You do not intend to bind me?

“No,” Red said. The energy that would take would be draining, and his chances of getting caught were high besides. “Just to ask you a question. A single question.”

Endymion watched him for a moment. You are not like the other students, it said, surprising him. I see it in your mind now. Many of you have learned to Summon. Your peers Summon others of my kind—to ask for knowledge, the answers to your tests. Final exams. He felt its contempt. They call spirits, only to cheat. To earn grades better than their friends.

“Yes,” Red said, “that’s the quirk of going to a school full of Mages. I’m sure it’s been going on since the beginning of time. But if I’d only wanted that, Endymion, I would have called a minor spirit—not one as great as you.” Would flattery work on a spirit? He supposed it didn’t hurt to try.

Endymion whirled impatiently. Ask your question, then. What knowledge do you seek?

Red’s chest tightened; he took a breath, trying to loosen it. “I want you to instruct me in why the Worldwalkers vanished,” he said. “Those Mages who once traveled the worlds. I want to know why they’re gone. I just want that one answer, that’s all.”

He felt Endymion’s surprise, and some level of grudging respect; no doubt the spirit had been dealing with rascally students for some time, if it had been summoned at all since the old days. It had probably been expecting him to cheat at his tests, too, or perhaps inquire as to who was in love with him at the moment, or something. He doubted anyone had ever asked it about the Worldwalkers before.

“Do you know the answer?” he asked the spirit. Spirits of knowledge were tricky; like all spirits that could be summoned, their formation out of the great mass of their world seemed to be driven by events that occurred in Blest. It was said the spirits of rage, for example, were birthed by great battles, enormous bloodshed. They seemed to remember those events, those emotions, materializing as echoes of those momentous and cataclysmic times, the impact reverberating into the Spirit Realm and giving vague shape to the spirits themselves—who only truly solidified when they were pulled into this world.

But where did spirits of knowledge come from? What formed them? How did they know the things they did? What were the limits to their knowledge? No one knew.

Yes, Endymion said finally. I know the answer.

Red took a breath, but the spirit continued: But I see your heart, Mage-whelp, your secret thoughts. Finding out why those Travelers left is only a part of the puzzle for you. You want to know where they went. And how you can get there, too.

Red went very still. “You know the secret to traveling between the worlds?” he whispered, barely daring to say it too loudly.

I am a spirit of knowledge, Endymion said. I know this, and so much more. I can give you the keys to slipping between the world-walls. I can show you how to walk the dark paths, the shadowy roads that wind between the universes like the gaps between the stars.

Trembling, Red reached for his offering plate again, but the spirit stopped him.

No, it said. For that, I will not accept wine and cheese.

Red caught his breath a little; he was in very dangerous territory. “What is it that you want, then?” he asked carefully.

Endymion didn’t hesitate. A vessel.

“I didn’t bring a suitable vessel. I’ll have to find one, and summon you again another night—”

No, the spirit said. We already have a suitable vessel. You.

Red cursed under his breath. He should have expected this, but somehow he’d thought this transaction would be much simpler, especially after all the complex preparation of stealing the summoning book in the first place. He’d thought this part would be easier; that he would ask the question, the spirit would eat, and then they would both go their separate ways.

But some spirits had higher standards. Some had had dealings with Mages for centuries, and they could gauge the quality of the vessel offered or the power required to anchor them, which they also fed from. This was what made them greater spirits, as opposed to the lesser or minor phantasms that could content themselves with less; and they would not obey a Mage of insufficient power. They might even attempt to break out of the Mage’s circle to fly free and find a vessel of their own, wreaking havoc in their single-minded pursuit; or they might demand a higher price of their services, acting on strange whims and quirks they’d picked up from previous years of servitude and existence. The more powerful and capable the spirit, the more difficult it was to satisfy and control.

Endymion was one of these, and the thought of it breaking out of Red’s hold made him break out in a cold sweat. And it seemed it would not be satisfied unless it had him, in exchange for the priceless knowledge it offered. Unless it had control of his body. A doll or a suit of armor or even a scrying glass wouldn’t do.

Red ran a hand through his hair, feeling his thighs cramp up even more from his cross-legged position in his circle. He’d heard of Mages hosting spirits inside of them before, granting the summoners fantastic powers without having to expend their own energy—but such unions were always temporary, as the mortal flesh and spirit could not house an unnatural visitor for too long. It was the same as a house unable to shelter an uncontained fire without burning down—eventually. But it had been done before, with the Mage successfully able to dismiss the spirit and remain intact afterward.

Or Endymion’s essence would melt the flesh right off his bones.

I will not, the spirit insisted, hearing his every stray thought. I have done it before. I am a good spirit. Look at the long list of masters I have served faithfully. I have never betrayed them. It paused, whirling like a sphere of dust and light within its circle. You could be one of them.

Red chewed his lip. “We’d have to be careful,” he said. “I can’t get caught. Summoning you was illegal enough as it was—if my teachers discover that I stole the book with your name in it and called you in an unauthorized summoning, I’ll be expelled. And you—your name will be struck from the lists, and no one will ever be able to summon you again.”

I understand, Endymion said, unconcerned. We will not be caught. I am a spirit of knowledge. I know how to evade detection.

Red thought about it. “An hour,” he said.

In the dead of night? No. A day.

“Not a chance. To dawn.”

To next midnight.

Red hesitated. “To sundown,” he said. “I have classes, an exam, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And the end-of-year ball—”

Dancing?

“That’s at night. But you can stay for the preparations.”

Endymion sniffed. Fine. I have no need of dancing. To sundown, then. We have a bargain.

Red thought about it some more—and then he thought, To hell with it. It would, at the very least, make an excellent thesis, if he survived. “Fine. We’ll share my body until sundown, and then you’ll tell me what I want to know. About the Worldwalkers, about where they went, and how they practiced their magic. And how I can do it, too.”

Yes. The pact is sealed.

Red blew out a breath. “The pact is sealed.”

The spirit crowded against the barrier of its circle. Let me in, then.

And so, with his every instinct screaming at him not to do so, Red raised his hand and pressed it against the invisible barrier of his rune circle. The air resisted against his palm, like a soap bubble that could bend, or the resistance of two opposite magnets being pushed together.

And then he broke through, feeling icy air touch his fingertips like the hand of the dead. He reached over and broke the chalk line of Endymion’s circle with a swipe of his index and thumb, feeling it snap as if he’d cut a circle of twine.

The spirit came rushing out to meet him, sliding up his fingertips and into the spaces under his skin, crowding against his heart and mind. Red grunted in surprise and drew back, but the light had already vanished: Endymion was inside him already, poking around. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, more just odd: there was a new, dull pressure within him now, a peculiar heaviness, as if he carried rocks in his stomach. As if there were now two hearts in his chest, not just the one, both moving in ponderous rhythm to each other.

Endymion smiled, and Red felt his face reflect the spirit’s expression in turn.

“It’s done,” he said, not knowing who it was that spoke. He laughed softly. “No going back now.”

#

Pan and Neon stared at him from across the breakfast table as Red crammed sweet roll after sweet roll into his mouth. He barely could get time to breathe around the food Endymion was shoving down his throat, let alone address his friends; he watched as Pan made a vague face of disgust and flicked away a stray smudge of frosting that had landed on his sleeve.

“Lords above, Red,” he muttered. “I know Summoning takes a lot out of you, but you need to slow down before anyone suspects anything.”

Neon’s eyes darted from behind his thick spectacles. “You haven’t even told us what the spirit said,” he said softly. “The ritual worked, but did you get the answer that you wanted?”

Red opened his mouth to answer, but Endymion stuffed another piece of bread in, nearly choking him.

Slow down! he shouted at the spirit, swallowing with difficulty as his friends stared. You’re drawing too much attention—people are going to suspect—

Need more, Endymion answered, utterly unfazed. Grab that pitcher of orange juice.

Pour it into a cup, you heathen—no, don’t pour it straight down our throat—

More.

He had to wrest control from the spirit, had to regain command of his body, fast. They were in the dining hall, surrounded by students, teachers, and staff. Someone was bound to notice that he was behaving oddly soon, and then they would both be doomed.

Red wrangled Endymion into submission, slowing his arms as they reached for a plate of persimmons. Spirits did not understand limits of the flesh, or the concept of excess: they could absorb things and thoughts and energy seemingly endlessly, so the idea of too much never occurred to them. Endymion was not used to inhabiting a vessel whose body could rebel against it; who could become sick or tired against its will.

He ground his teeth and forced himself to pick up one persimmon, wiping his mouth with a napkin in the other hand. It felt strange, pulling on the strings of his own body as if he were a marionette, but he supposed that was the price you paid for sharing your mortal shell with another soul.

Endymion grumbled, but settled down.

“I managed to summon it,” Red said finally, turning to his friends and trying to remember what it was like to speak and act normally. They stared at him, rapt. “But the offering I brought wasn’t good enough, not for the answer I wanted. I managed to ask it something else, and then it left.”

It pained him to lie to his friends, but he had to tread carefully: if he told them he was currently possessed by a spirit—Summoners called it spirit-bound—their shock and alarm could spike and cause very unwanted attention. Being surrounded by empaths, telepaths, and other magic-users was something of a curse.

Besides, Endymion did not want him to say anything, not until the spirit had vacated his body. And he did not want to do anything to piss the spirit off unduly. It could make for a very cantankerous roommate.

“So what did you ask it?” Neon asked.

“And are you going to try summoning it again?” Pan added.

“Maybe,” Red said. “Though I’m going to have to return the book, before anyone notices it’s missing. As for the question—I asked it what question I’d need to know to beat Cosorim in the class ranking.”

At this, they all turned to a table across the hall, where Cosorim, another fourth-year student, sat glaring at Red. He was a thin, slight young man with tousled black hair and an arrogant chin, and he was surrounded by books. He and Red had been competing for the entire year over placing first in the class rankings and earning the title of smartest—or at least most studious—Mage in their grade. They were neck and neck, and the final exams taking place today would be the ultimate decider of who placed where. Red, in truth, did not care about the ranking overmuch, but Cosorim had been so insufferable over the last months that he simply did not want to give the other boy the satisfaction of winning.

Pan smirked. “Smart. That’ll be sure to drive him mad. It was an answer on one of the finals?”

“Er—something like that. But I don’t know which one.”

Neon raised an eyebrow, looking a bit skeptical, but Pan seemed to accept this. “Now—do you think I can Summon this spirit, if I wanted to ask it something?”

Red began methodically cramming food into his mouth again; when he was distracted by other conversations, Endymion tended to take over. “What would you want to know?”

“What else? How do I make my sword bigger?”

Endymion radiated contempt. Stupidity at its finest.

It’s not exactly the height of intelligence and sophistication, you know, to inhale eggs like they’re going to go extinct.

I have not tasted food since three moons hung in the sky. Do you blame me?

Wait, there were three moons?

It’s an expression.

“What sword?” Neon was asking.

Pan made a crude gesture. “It was a joke, stupid. I was talking about my—” He bit his words off hastily in the next moment, though; and Neon choked on his drink. A pretty girl with curly brown hair cut short in a bob was standing behind them, looking at Red.

He racked his brains, but couldn’t place her. The girl said, “Hello, Red.”

He swallowed with difficulty. “H’llo.”

She brushed her hair behind her ear. “I was wondering—are you going with anybody to the ball tonight?”

Well, no, as a matter of fact, he wasn’t: he’d originally planned on going with Celie, but that fell through, and her friend Beauregard had not taken kindly to being asked right after. But before he could wonder why this girl he had never seen before was asking, Endymion said:

Are those chocolate buns?

He grabbed a fistful and stuffed them in his face, not even bothering to chew.

The girl’s smile shrank by a few molars. Neon’s eyes boggled, and Pan was covering his face. “Er,” the girl said. “I could come back later, if you want to finish eating—”

“Sorry. I’m starving,” Red began apologetically; but Endymion opened his mouth and said abruptly, “If you’re asking if I’ll go with you, the answer is no.”

Red would have jabbed it with an elbow if the spirit existed in a physical form. Endymion!

What?

Don’t be cruel. You don’t even know if that was what she was asking!

I know. I’m a spirit of knowledge.

You could have been nicer!

Sometimes the kindest thing is honesty.

You are so full of shit.

The girl had fled already, while he was busy arguing with the recalcitrant spirit lodged inside of him. Pan leaned across the table and said in a harsh whisper, “What the Hael’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you speak to someone like that.”

Tell him you didn’t get any sleep, Endymion said, which was true, because Endymion had refused to let him close his eyes, wanting to take in the world for as long as possible; but before he could say it, another voice cut then through the chatter of the dining hall. A shadow fell over Red’s plate.

“Perhaps he’s finally showing his true colors,” a familiar, aristocratic voice drawled behind him. “The part of him that doesn’t actually care for anyone. The part that only uses people to look good. The part that lacks substance.”

Red stifled a groan, and Endymion within him tensed. Neon frowned up at the student standing behind Red, and Pan said: “Cosorim, would you just give it a rest already? Red being better than you isn’t anything sinister. It just is. Come to terms with it and move on.”

Who is this? Endymion demanded—and then scanned his thoughts and memories before he could answer. Ah. An insufferable sycophant. An idiot and a coward.

He’s not that bad, Red began as Endymion turned his head to face Cosorim. But he and the spirit both knew that it wasn’t entirely true. Cosorim was a pain in the ass. He constantly threw insults and barbed words at Red, seeing what would stick, and Red had never retaliated, which only puffed his rival up. And he had an almost fanatic obsession with the idea of beating Red; of proving himself better than him, in some way. If Red signed up to take part in a race, Cosorim was out training on the track the day after. If Red auditioned for a part in the annual play, Cosorim wanted the bigger role. He did not know where this rivalry had begun, or why; it was only Cosorim’s constant goading and jeering that made him reluctant to give up or lose.

He finally met Cosorim’s eyes, and the other boy curled his lip. “I heard someone saw you sneaking out last night, Antiqua,” he said, folding his arms. “Out bedding another dimwit when you should have been studying for your exams?”

Red cranked on a smile. “On the contrary, Cosi,” he said in a friendly manner. His rival’s eyes blazed at the nickname. “I was actually up, researching a way to beat you.”

Then he clapped his mouth shut. Endymion!

What?

Cosorim’s mouth had dropped; Red had never spoken to him in such a way before. “What do you mean?” the boy sputtered. “What do you mean, a way to beat me?”

Red winked at him, while another part of him screamed. “I have some insurance,” he said in an undertone. “Don’t bother worrying about the finals. I’m going to do better than you, so you can just relax and let it happen.”

Stop needling him!

What is the point of inhabiting a human vessel if I don’t get to antagonize someone?

That wasn’t part of the deal!

Two red spots had appeared high on Cosorim’s pale face. “You’re lying,” he said—though he seemed a bit shaken. “What insurance could you possibly have?”

Red leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I summoned a greater spirit of knowledge,” he whispered. “And I asked for a surefire way to defeat you once and for all. Clever, right? I bet you wished you’d thought of that first.”

Cosorim flushed, right up to the roots of his dark hair. “You stole a forbidden text, I presume,” he breathed, looking furious that Red indeed had thought of it first. “I take it you translocated into the library? I could tell the teachers—have you expelled.”

Red smiled and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You could try,” he said, “but I asked the spirit on how to head you off there, too. It thought of everything, you see. You’d only look very foolish.”

“You’re cheating!” Cosorim cried then. “You can’t—you can’t just summon a spirit to do the work for you. There’s no point to that!”

“A good Mage uses all the tools in his arsenal, Cosi,” Red said cheerfully. “I hope you remember that, when you place second later today.”

Cosorim growled, then whirled on his heel and stalked off.

Pan turned to him, looking awed. “You’re a bastard,” he said, half-gleeful. “What’s happened to you? Where’s the goody two-shoes who never wanted to tell that muti to fuck off?”

Endymion happened to me, Red thought miserably, watching Cosorim disappear into the crowd of students gathering their trays as they began to head to class.

The spirit, too, was watching his rival leave. That was fun, it said eventually. I never get to do such things in the Spirit Realm.

Red gnashed his teeth. And? Are you happy that you made me bully another student?

Endymion hesitated. Red felt a flicker of knowledge, of prescience, deep within his mind; but it was too brief and nebulous for him to really understand it.

No, Endymion said. That might have been a mistake.

What is that supposed to mean?

A mental shrug. We will see.

#

The day dragged on in a kind of blur. Red let Endymion gorge itself on experiences, drinking the cool water from the fountain in the courtyard, scampering up a drainpipe to feel the wind in their hair. He let it smell different books and do a kind of jig in the halls. It marveled at the sound of the wind in the trees, at the sensation of grass on his hands. It even relished the stomachache it gave him, enjoying the discomfort. Red tracked the sun across the sky and counted the hours until he could have his answer.

Once, during his exam on Abjuration and Null-Magic, Endymion made him shoot randomly to his feet, knocking over his chair. Red lurched forward, alarmed, and caught himself on the edge of his desk, gripping it as if he might float away. Several students glared while some giggled and tittered.

“Adept Antiqua,” Professor Emari said sharply. “Is there a problem?”

He righted his chair and shoved himself back into it, ears burning. “No, Professor. Sorry, Professor.”

She squinted at him, short yet somehow towering from her perch at the front of the room. “Quiet down, or you can forfeit your exam and leave the class.”

“Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor.”

He ducked back down to his test and said to Endymion: What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to get us caught!

Something’s wrong, the spirit said urgently. I felt it.

What? What’s wrong?

But even the spirit of knowledge couldn’t say. Anxiety simmered in Red’s gut for the rest of the afternoon.

Dinner came, and finally Endymion seemed bored enough that Red could control and master its movements, eating at a more normal pace. Sundown was finally creeping near: it wouldn’t be long now before he could retreat to the broom closet and ask the spirit his question again, especially while everyone was distracted by the dance. Neon and Pan talked excitedly about their dance partners; and Imarim and Bene, who had been studying in the morning, sat with them too, reviewing the state of their exams in fierce tones. Red allowed himself to relax. None of them were taking any particular notice of him, and this ordeal was almost over.

Then Cosorim walked into the room again, and Red choked on his food. There was a crown of light surrounding the other boy, a greenish, ethereal kind of light that pulsed and shifted at random.

What is that?

Endymion went very still, inside him.

He is spirit-bound, it hissed. There is another one of my kind inside him.

What?

Your goading drove him to summon a spirit of his own!

My goading—youdid it—

That doesn’t matter. We need to get closer.

Endymion made him lurch to his feet; and just as quickly Red threw himself back down. No! If I can see it in him, that means he can see you in me—he’ll know we’re spirit-bound too—

He felt Endymion’s impatience like a lash of heat across his brain. Does that matter? Who is he going to tell?

Of course it matters, Red replied. If he tells a teacher—

You think he would do that when he’s committed the exact same crime as you?

He’s crazy enough to summon a spirit just to one-up me, so I don’t know, you tell me! And I’ll thank you not to call it a crime—

Shut up, shut up, he’s coming here!

Red went still as he watched Cosorim rise and walk towards his table again, smirking. He seemed utterly confident, relaxed and fluid as a panther: nothing like the tense, jangled mess he’d been for the last year. He said as he walked past, without looking at Red: “Fire beats fire.”

You idiot, Red thought, that doesn’t make any sense.

At the same time Endymion reached out as Cosorim walked away from the table, heading for the food dispensary to get a refill of his dinner. Then the spirit recoiled, and Red felt it as a heaving in his stomach.

What is it? he asked as Cosorim walked out of earshot.

Endymion made a hissing noise. We’re in trouble.

What do you mean?

He stole the summoning book out of your room, while you were in class. He called what he thought was another spirit of knowledge, something to ensure he would beat you—

He didn’t even need to do that, I doubt we did all that well on the finals with you nattering on—

—but he did not summon a spirit of knowledge.

Red fell silent again. What did he summon? he asked finally, quietly.

Endymion seemed resigned. Sometimes spirits become corrupted, he said. Too much exposure to this world, to certain influences within it—sometimes it changes them. Or drives them mad. When a spirit of knowledge is corrupted—

The knowledge came to Red in an instant. They become a spirit of deceit?

Yes. That’s what’s inside Cosorim now. It’s promised him glory, defeating you—but it’s deceiving him. That’s what it does. It will steer him wrong, lead him to his death—and then when his soul has vacated his body, it will take it over as its own. And there’s no telling what it will do to your world then.

Red gripped his cutlery, tight enough for his knuckle to turn white. Bene and Pan, oblivious, were talking about getting corsages for the ball. We need to warn him, Red said. He’s an ass, but he doesn’t deserve to be killed by a spirit he summoned because he wanted to get better grades than me.

He won’t listen. Spirits of deception are very good at fooling people.

A teacher, then, Red said.They can get it out of him—

And what will you say when they ask you how you know? How will you explain it: how you know the spirit of knowledge within him is now one of deceit? How you know there’s a spirit in him at all?

He paused. Thought about it. I’ll have to tell them about you.

Yes. And then you’ll be expelled for illegally summoning a greater spirit.

Then what do we do?

We need to get him alone, Endymion said. Away from prying eyes. And then I’ll get the Corrupt out of him.

You would do that?

The spirit seemed to bridle. I am a spirit of knowledge, it said. It is my duty to destroy deceit.

Sometimes spirits were like that: fixated on what they thought was their purpose. Spirits of justice could become obsessed with revenge, with balancing the scales; he supposed it made sense for spirits of knowledge to hate spirits of… anti-knowledge.

Red rubbed his eyes, then blew out a long breath. I suppose we’ll have to extend our pact past sundown.

Yes, Endymion said grimly. It seems we are going to the dance.

#

It was harder than he expected, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. He was wearing an second-hand suit his mother had bought him—the sleeves were just a bit too short, but he hadn’t had the heart to tell his mother, who couldn’t get her head around his enormous growth spurts—and he hadn’t had time to comb his hair, not with Endymion dragging him impatiently towards the dance. (Spirits did not seem to understand or care about basic grooming procedures.) But the minute he stepped into the room, he seemed to be swarmed by people wanting to dance with him, or asking to fetch him a piece of cake from the big table. Endymion was intrigued by the prospect of more food, but Red managed to extract himself with a dozen polite “In a bit, I promise”s and “Thank you, maybe later”s.

By the time he made it to the center of the dance floor, he was sweating. Hands seemed to pluck at his sleeves like spirits of air and wind. Endymion said: Where’s the idiot?

Red looked around. I don’t see him yet. Do you think he’ll even be here?

His spirit wouldn’t have been summoned for a long time—long enough for it to become corrupted without anyone knowing. It won’t be able to resist the pretty lights and music.

Soon enough he managed to spot Cosorim, standing by the punch table and chatting with Magister Elovira. Red nearly had a heart attack: what in the world was he doing, talking to the teacher who’d taught them to summon spirits in the first place? What if she got a whiff of what was going on?

I told you, Endymion said impatiently. Spirit of deceit. They’re good at hiding in plain sight. Now get him away from her before the spirit decides to do something mad.

He hurried over and caught the tail-end of Magister Elovira saying, “You know I can’t talk about the grades until they’re done, Cosorim—”

“Yes, but surely a hint…”

“Well, I’m not going to say a word until the graded exams are officially posted, but I will say you did admirably well despite how late you came to class. You were lucky I even let you take the exam at all.”

“Yes, Magister Elovira.”

They turned to Red then, all smiles and sweetness. “Oh, Red,” their teacher said. “Well done on finishing your fourth year.”

He seized Cosorim’s elbow and forced a smile, despite the contact starting a feeling of static in his hand—as if his limb had fallen asleep. “Thank you, Magister Elovira. I’ll miss being in your class.”

She snorted. “Really? Because you seemed to be thinking about something else, during my lectures these past few weeks.”

He laughed, too loudly, as he began to drag Cosorim away. Magister Elovira was beginning to take on a puzzled look, looking around as if she could smell something but could not pinpoint what its source was. “Yes—we’ll have to talk about it later, only I’ve got to show Cosorim something—”

Cosorim let him drag him outside, past the doors leading into the ballroom and out onto the cool, moon-shaded balcony that jutted out onto the cliff that Solhadur was built into. Below, the wide, still lake sat like a pool of darkness at their feet, the balcony so dizzyingly high that it seemed as if they were in another world, peering down. Later, students would be out on this balcony, seeking privacy to cool down from the dances and most likely to dally with each other; Red had kissed his fair share of partners on this very terrace. But for now, it was utterly silent and empty, save for the shivering of the high night wind.

Red released Cosorim’s elbow and turned, beginning: “It was stupid of you to steal the book out of my room, stupider to pick a name without doing your research—”

And, quite suddenly, he felt Cosorim’s bony hands wrap around his throat.

Red gasped and tried to shove Cosorim back, but the other boy had the element of surprise; he drove Red backwards, until he felt the rail of the balcony hit the small of his back—and then he was half-bent over it, nearly dangling in the empty air.

Cosorim’s eyes were wide and frightened, but his grip was unrelenting and crushing. Red felt his larynx being compressed; he sputtered, clawing at Cosorim’s hands, but the corners of his vision were already beginning to speckle with black.

“I’m sorry,” Cosorim breathed, “I don’t know why—Nemphatim, stop—”

Abruptly his expression changed, to one more hardened and dead, and he said, “We must be rid of them. They will expose us. Expose me. They are a threat.” And he shoved Red harder, so that he nearly toppled over the railing and to his death.

Endymion! Red shouted. What do I do?

For a moment, he didn’t hear the spirit’s answer—and he thought, It doesn’t matter if I die. It’ll just dissipate back to the Spirit Realm, unharmed.

Then Endymion said, Use your magic. Translocate out of his hold!

Red reached for the spellword, tried to hold a safe location in his mind—his bedroom, the dance floor, the library—but his head was spinning, and the magic slid out of his grasp, water slipping out of a sieve. All the air was being crushed out of him; he couldn’t think. I can’t!

The spirit seemed to grow hot and large in his mind, inflating and brightening. Then give me control. All of it!

Red struggled for a moment, kicking and punching at Cosorim, who held on, relentless. Consciousness began to fade away from him, the darkness growing in the corners of his mind. If he passed out, Endymion could take control of his body, but it would be clumsy, awkward, like moving an object that was too heavy for one person. It needed total control, his complete and willing surrender. Magister Elovira’s voice came to him: Rule number one of summoning. A Mage must never cede control. They must remain in charge at all times. Their command must never waver.

Endymion rapped at his brain, hard. Give me control! Let me fight it!

A spirit could wreak absolute havoc with total control of a human body. It might not give back control, once it had it. It might become intoxicated by the experience of being alive—he might become a passenger in his own body—

But if he didn’t do something, he was going to die, and Cosorim was going to run rampant, anyway. All because of him. The school might burn.

Red closed his eyes and thought, Fine. Do it.

It was a strange sensation, and very difficult, to drop all of the walls in his mind and allow Endymion to come rushing in. It was like detaching something in his brain, pulling something tight and vital, letting him dangle uselessly like a puppet with all of his strings cut.

Endymion filled the empty spaces he had left and said, Yes.

He raised his hand and threw light and heat into Cosorim’s face, burning him. The boy released him with a cry and staggered back, clutching his cheek.

Endymion leapt forward, his limbs both too-light and too-heavy, power from another world coursing through him as if he’d swallowed a sun. He threw wave after wave of magic at Cosorim, driving him back; and at the same time he tore at the spirit inside him, rending and rending, the two spirits battling it out like opposite winds clashing in the air. Greenish light erupted from Cosorim’s skin, from his eyes; Nemphatim was big, and strong, and more powerful than Endymion—but its control over Cosorim was weaker, and the other Mage was fighting it, too, and his power was also lesser than Red’s.

Red watched as Endymion savagely tore at the other spirit, pieces of it floating away from Cosorim and dissipating into the air like wisps of smoke, and he thought, You’re doing it. We’re winning!

But then Cosorim raised his hand, spoke a word, and summoned a spirit-blade, a weapon made of aether and light. And then he drove it into Red’s heart.

Red gasped, but he felt nothing; he was disconnected from his own body, it was Endymion who had been pierced. He felt the spirit thrash and panic against its impalement, its essence already bleeding away. He thought, You’re hurt—I can dispel you, send you back to the Spirit Realm before you die—

No, Endymion said. That’s what Nemphatim wants: to leave you helpless. I am the only one who can kill it.

But if you stay here on this plane, you’ll die!

I am a good spirit, Endymion said. I have served many masters, and never abandoned them. I am Endymion, spirit of knowledge and light.

Before Red could react, Endymion had driven them forward again, lashing and biting at Nephatim within Cosorim’s body, while outwardly it flung spells and blasted magic to keep the two minds occupied. Red watched as the light within Cosorim dwindled to nothing more than a sphere of pulsing light within his chest. Inside his own body, he saw Endymion rapidly diminishing, its life-light flickering and sputtering.

Finally Endymion reached out and tore the spirit right out of Cosorim’s body, flinging it to the floor as if it were a broken, bleeding heart. Nemphatim immediately vanished, and Cosorim fell to the ground, gasping and sobbing. People were beginning to rush out onto the balcony; he saw two teachers run to Cosorim’s side.

Endymion was dying quickly. Red slumped back against the balcony railing, trying to catch his breath as he took over his own body again. Warmth was leaking out of his chest; he felt his shirt but found no blood. Endymion dwindled to nothing more than a spark in his heart.

Thank you, Red said. You destroyed it—but I’m sorry it came to this.

It was my own doing, Endymion said. But I have defeated deception, and I go now back to the Great Sea. I will be reborn in another form. I will not have this name again.

Will you remember me?

The spirit of knowledge didn’t answer for a moment. I do not know.

What about the Worldwalkers? Red asked. Someone was hauling him up by the armpits; Pan was shouting in his face. You never answered my question—how will I find them, how can I learn their ways?

You don’t need me for that,Endymion answered, with a trace of impatience. You never did.

And then it died.

The sudden emptiness within him was shocking, as if someone had torn one of his organs out—but not as shocking as Red’s own callousness, when he realized it. The spirit had sacrificed its life for him, for everyone in the Circle, for no reason other than it had wanted to. There was no bargaining, no pacts. It had died a hero, and all he’d been concerned about was getting the answers to his questions. Shit. When had he become so… reckless? So selfish? He’d put himself in danger, he’d put everyone in danger—and he hadn’t even cared that Endymion had died. He’d never be able to summon it again. It would never exist as it had today.

What is wrong with me? he thought as Magister Elovira looked him over. She turned away and said something to Archmage Tevanti: “They’re fine. I think they were having a duel. They’ve been rivals all year: it was bound to come to a head.”

No, Red thought. It wasn’t the truth, it wasn’t right. It was deception.

But Endymion had already gone, and a few hours passed as he came back into himself, settled back into his heart and mind. He became Red again, and then the questions came back, the need to know, rushing back into him like a spirit of its own. The deception didn’t matter, fell away like a body thrown off a balcony. There was nothing left inside him to care.