Page 77 of Sword & Sacrifice

Quentin made a long, drawn-out humming sound. “You know … I don’t remember … it was, before he left, obviously. Ran away, I mean—”

A knock on the door interrupted his prevarication. The scene played out just as it had with Juniper. Silas nodded to his guard, who opened the door to reveal another soldier standing in the hallway, holding a leather wrapped package.

The soldier stepped forward and repeated the same line, “We found this while searching the aides’ apartments.”

Quentin’s eyes locked on the package, following its movement as the soldier stepped into the room and handed it to Silas. What little color was in his pale face completely drained away as he watched Silas flip the leather open to reveal the Vault key. “But I melted it …”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The rhythmic crack of the whip was so steady that when it faltered, even for a second, Valerian was pulled out of his daze. He’d long since allowed himself to slump against the bindings holding him to the posts, head dangling, eyes closed, exhausted and hollowed out into an empty shell. That single hesitation made him lift his head again.

The lashes continued, but now there was a hitch to the pattern, like a bent wheel thumping over an uneven road.

Dedicated bastard. If you’re that tired, just give up.

Knowledge of himself returned to Valerian slowly. For that first flash of irritation, he’d been speaking to Maksim, who had spent the last hour—night—year?—whipping him. The burn of rage that followed was directed at the blue-eyed villain who had trapped Val in his own mind, changing the scenario to take away his own memories of rebellion, triumph.

Escape.

Freedom.

Valerian gritted his teeth and tested the ropes. They still bound him to the post, stretching his arms until they threatened to dislocate from their sockets. He tried folding his fingers over, to see if he could work at the knot while the memory infinitely played out the same ten seconds in time. His fingertips barely touched the rope, just enough to feel his own blood soaking it.

If the memory had continued, Valerian could simply see it through to the end. Even if he had to start over again, it would give him one more opportunity to outwit Alistair and slip through the cracks.

But Maksim never stopped the whip. Never picked up an axe and casually threatened to dismember Valerian to prevent him from running away. Never untied the rope to give Val the brief opening he’d had in the real world.

So Valerian would have to find another way out of this fucking mess.

Frustrated, he dropped his head again, glaring at the ground as he mentally worked through the problem. Something shifted in his vision, and he blinked until it came into focus.

Use all five senses to familiarize yourself with the material, until you understand each individual aspect.

The handwriting was familiar, with uncertain strokes, small and rushed as the writer crammed in as much information as possible. It’d be decades before confidence smoothed the penmanship. When the writer could take their time to record their thoughts rather than trying to keep pace with someone else’s.

My old grimoire. Valerian’s first, to be precise. From when he was still studying under Master Imus. Although it’d been almost fifty years, seeing the words in front of him brought forth the memory of sitting in his master’s classroom, learning magic that excited and bored him in equal measures.

Can I shift into a different memory? Valerian wasn’t a mental mage, so he didn’t know how the mindscape worked beyond his own experiences. He knew touching one of the trees would drag him into a memory, but could he call a memory forth on his own? Force his consciousness into new surroundings?

Even if he was still trapped afterwards, sitting through an endless lesson on fixing agricultural equipment would be better than remaining at Maksim’s mercy.

But as Valerian watched, more handwriting joined the first—clean, precise notes written in the margins.

Sometimes understanding the process is more important than understanding the materials.

The other writer seemed to be conversing with the text. Commenting and correcting different sections. Master Imus used to do something similar, though only on the papers Valerian turned in—never directly in his own journals. The books that would eventually become his grimoires.

This whole mess had started because Valerian had stolen one of Alistair’s grimoires, experimenting with magic he didn’t understand, pitting himself against a master. Now Alistair had stolen one of Valerian’s. Why though? What did he want to learn from them?

A dry laugh escaped Valerian. Maksim didn’t react, as if he hadn’t heard anything at all.

The memories Valerian had relived were fresher in his mind than almost anything. His own thoughts rang in his head as he escaped Maksim the first time: it’s easier to break something than to fix it.

Alistair’s notes seemed to agree. The text had stopped forming for now, the writer taking a break, but it remained carved into the ground before Valerian.

Connect with the material.

With his blood soaking into the ropes, Valerian had a rather firm connection.