Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(58)

I grit my teeth as my muscles rippled, the blinding rage dimming my vision.

“I do not need you, or anyone else to make me strong.” I didn’t take my eyes away from him as I spoke. I could see his own anger pulsing just under the surface, waiting to escape and attack me, no matter how hard Wyn and Sain tried to control it.

My magic flashed once, and I slammed my fist into the table, a powerful ripple of my magic resounding through the room in a tangible cloud. It moved through the others in a gust of wind that sent them off balance, their clothes and hair whipping around them in the torrent.

I could hear their yells of surprise as the wind grew, the roar of my magic a snap in their ears. My magic exploded into the paper under my hand as the power moved through the air, flying through the ancient fibers and into the space that surrounded us.

Like the ripples of a wave against smooth water, my magic surged again as I prompted it. The flux of energy saturated the map as the markings that dotted the surface wiggled and moved over the top. Ink spread over the paper as my magic did, thick black lines rising from the map like wisps of smoke, the grey vapor growing and multiplying as they moved and danced in the air above the aged paper.

I didn’t look away from Ryland as my magic spread through the forest, focusing on everything that surrounded us. I saw the fine, red hairs of a Trpaslík’s beard, and the glowing green rocks of a fire. I saw them in the shadows of my eyes as I looked through Ryland, the images becoming part of me. I brought them into me, pushing them into the inky tendrils that floated above the map, morphing them, changing them into a perfect replica of what we were surrounded by.

Trees sprouted from the paper, the black and white figures unfurling from the soot as if they were growing there. The wispy spirals of ink joined together as they formed tiny, two-inch tall shadows of each of the Trpaslíks who surrounded us. The small figures moved through camps and around fires, the same way their counterparts moved miles away from where we stood. Figure after figure took shape over the surface of the map; my magic rippled powerfully through me as tents, trees, cars, everything that the enemy had brought with them began to materialize.

“I am not weak,” I growled at him again, trying desperately to ignore the look of amazement that lined everyone’s faces.

Everyone but Ryland.

Ryland just looked at me, his face stony and callous as glowered down on me. My father was already mumbling in his ear as he took the fight out of him, something I would be lucky to keep at bay.

I scowled at Ryland as I leaned away from the table, grabbing my mug of Black Water, content that I had made my point even though I was sure he was immune to whatever I had just displayed to him.

I jumped a bit as Ilyan placed his hand against my bare arm, his magic flowing into me in one quick burst as my mind filled with his thoughts of awe and pride. I turned to him at the touch, the look on his face soft and gentle before he removed his hand, the weakened connection leaving me with only shadows of his thoughts. He turned back to the few of us who huddled around the map, his voice that deep rumble of royalty again.

“Here,” Ilyan prodded through the ghostly shadows of ink as he displayed a new path, different than the one he had originally decided upon, this one further west, further from the main camp where Edmund’s guards had settled.

His finger traced through the camps, a line of red glitter flying from the tip of his finger again as he left the trail for all to see. The red sparkled among the wispy smoke figures, trailing away from the center of the map.

A sure getaway.

Then why did it make me so uncomfortable? I heard everyone else agree, saw their heads bob in agreement out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn’t look away from the end of the map where the beautiful line of Ilyan’s magic stopped, where the swirls of my magic had not taken on a true shape, leaving only a patch of grey smoke that swirled through the air.

“The five of you will travel along this path here,” Ilyan began as he indicated the red line, but his voice sounded tinny and distant, my mind pulling away from them.

I stared blankly at the swirls of grey above the map, my body weighed down as my magic stretched away from me. I pressed into the power as it moved, my heartbeat rising as I focused on the shapeless smoke, my desperate need for understanding only growing.

“Joclyn and I will begin an attack here, allowing for the section to clear out.”

The world where Ilyan spoke was a million miles away as I focused on the bare patch of land miles from where we stood. Except it wasn’t bare; I could clearly see the burlap tent that stood in the bare space, in the exact position on the map where the ink still danced through the air.

I stared at the tent in my mind’s eye, the plain square shape feeling like an oppressive force even from this distance. The flap to the tent moved in the breeze as my magic stretched through the air, a gentle buzzing replacing Ilyan’s voice as I focused, as I moved closer. The closer I got, the heavier my mind and magic grew, until I felt that same, weird feeling as before; the peculiar magic I had felt so many times before hitting me hard.

I had felt it first less than two days ago when I woke to Ilyan and Thom around the table, but it didn’t have the same strength then as it did now. Now it felt like sludge against me, sticking to my soul, weighing me down.

The heavy mire pushed against me as I waded through it, straining to see the tent further, my heart rate picking up at the sight of the guard who stood before the narrow opening, his hands holding a gun tightly against his chest. A gun?