The Golden Tower (Magisterium #5)(28)

Power surged up inside Call, brutal and terrifying. He was propelled to his feet, even as the woods around him seemed to shift and waver — other memories overlapped these woods, of ancient forests deep with trees, dark paths winding through them, lined with ferocious elemental monsters.

And through all of that, Call could see something he had never seen before. Chaos, living chaos, like black lines running through the world. The sky and earth were dark with it. This was why chaos had such power, he thought — because it was a part of everything, of every rock and tree and cloud; it was in and around all things. It was the spinning heart of the world.

He reached out with his hands as if he were reaching to pick up something simple like a cup or a stone. He caught the twisting coils of chaos that wound all around him and pulled them together, weaving a massive spinning black flame between his hands.

He could hear the others screaming his name. It didn’t matter. He knew exactly what he was doing. Somewhere in his mind, Aaron was shouting. Call flung his arms out, and the black flame exploded from his fingers, striking the elemental wolves, tearing them to shadowy pieces.

Jasper had flung himself in front of Gwenda and Tamara. They all watched, stunned, as the wolves blasted away to ash, and black fire raced up and down Call’s arms, crackling like lightning.

“Call!” Tamara screamed. “Call!”

But Call couldn’t hear her. He could only see and hear black fire, only remember burning. In fact, memories were pouring into his head, in an uncontrollable tide. As he tumbled down into darkness, he could hear himself screaming.





HE WAS IN an ice cave. The cold of it made his breath crystallize in the air. He could feel it even through his heavy coat, even through his magic. There was a terrible pain in his chest and all around him were the dead and dying.

If he didn’t act quickly, he was going to be one of them.

He had come here to strike at the old and infirm, the weak, because he knew from long experience that fear was more palpable than might. It gave him no pleasure to attack the elderly, children, sick people. Yet the person who cares the least is always the winner and he wanted to win. He was willing to do whatever it took, no matter how terrible, and he was willing to do it himself, not trust it to some underling.

He’d never expected such a weak and infirm collection of people to mount such a response. The Chaos-ridden he’d brought with him were destroyed, fallen in their second death, and he’d been hurt. Badly hurt.

His body was failing, its heart slowing, its lungs drowning in their own blood. He cast about for a new vessel. Sarah Hunt, who’d sent the magical knives into his chest? He’d managed to turn a few of the blades back to strike her and now she leaned against the wall, mortally wounded, watching him with wary, dulling eyes. No, she wouldn’t be alive much longer. He glanced at a few of the grandparents, their bodies protecting children. Dead, all of them dead.

A thin, thready cry went up, and he saw that there was a baby, still alive, held in the arms of a man — Declan Novak, Sarah’s brother. Declan had slumped down against the wall near his sister. The mage made swift calculations. He had no idea whether his Makar power would go with him into this child. He’d always taken care to possess the body of a Makar before — if the power didn’t go with him, then he might well find his end at last.

He took a long and painful step closer to the baby, ignoring Sarah’s cries for him to keep away. The child was wailing, which was a good sign. It was still strong, a survivor, with a shock of black hair and angry waving fists.

A baby. As an infant, he wouldn’t be able to do magic or leave the cave. He would be defenseless. He would have to take the chance that someone came. Worse, he was afraid that the unformed mind would be overwhelmed by the full scope of his memories. And yet, Constantine’s body was fading fast. It would never last long enough for him to find another candidate.

His memories would have to be walled up inside this vulnerable new mind, he decided swiftly. It was a tidy solution in its way — only when he was a mage strong and wise enough to find those memories locked up inside his head would he be able to free them. He would receive all the wisdom he’d once possessed only when he was ready for it. After all, without his memories, how would he ever return to glory?

And he, Maugris, the Scythe of Souls, the Devourer of Men, the Enemy of Death, was intended for glory. Glory forever and ever, for all time.

Taking a deep breath, his last in this broken body, his soul pushed its way out of what was left of Constantine Madden and into the screaming infant that had been Callum Hunt.

This is not the end of me, he vowed.



Call woke with a scream and then went on screaming. Someone had tied him down to a bed and there were scorch marks on the wall, scorch marks Call didn’t recall making. He didn’t recall the walls either, or the room.

“Call?” It was Jasper’s voice, and for a moment, Call quieted. He knew where he was, after all. Or at least he thought that he did before the room tilted and everything slid away.

Then it seemed to him that he was in a thousand places at once, that there were a host of people passing before him, trying to talk to him. A thousand voices shouting. Mages in Assembly robes, men and women with burned and blackened skin, shaking their fists.

“I defeated you in Prague!” Call shouted back at one of them. “It was I, and I shall defeat you again!”