Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

He also imagined they had plans to betray Roland and Zlydzen at the first opportunity.

Monstrous bullies of their caliber suffered no rivals if they didn’t have to.

“I’m sure they plan to try and take it by force as soon as they think they can work it,” Roland said as though reading Milo’s mind. “But by the time they learn that’s impossible, they’ll be dancing to our tune.”

Milo nodded and sank back into his seat, his heart thundering in his ears.

This was much bigger and much worse than anything he could have dreamed of. His head swirled with images of entire cities shuffling out of their homes, joining a stream of soulless marching eastward to answer the call of their masters. An entire continent, every man, woman, and child hollowed out to accept the psychic strings of a hopeless living marionette.

Milo held his head in his hands and stared at the floorboards.

His soul scrambling against the abyssal despair settling over him, Milo affixed his mind on a question emerging from what Roland had said.

“Why would it be impossible?” he asked, looking up to see Roland staring at him with obvious concern. “I mean, why couldn’t they figure it out?”

Roland reached out and squeezed Milo’s shoulder, and it took everything in him not to squirm away.

“Well, because it’s magic, obviously,” Roland said with another wink as he looked appraisingly at Milo. “And that’s where you come in, little brother. But for now, you don’t look so good. A little food and some sleep are called for, I think.”

“How about a lot of food?” Milo asked with a weak smile.

“I think we can manage that.” Roland laughed and gunned the engine as he swung back to the bridge that would take them off that wretched island.

17

These Ashes

Milo ate until he was full and then had another two helpings. He had a feeling he’d need every single calorie soon.

It was late morning by the time he and Roland returned to the suite, and they found the room much warmer, with a fire burning and the broken window thoroughly boarded up. The heat, combined with fatigue and the burdensome food in his belly, sapped whatever energy Milo possessed, and he staggered across the room to the divan, shedding his borrowed coat as he went. He’d very nearly thrown himself down on the velvet-covered couch when Roland wrapped an arm around him and began marching him to the bed.

Even in his current state of near-exhaustion, Milo found the strength to arch his back and start to pull away.

“Stop it, Milo. It’s not like that,” Roland snapped without letting go of him. “You need proper rest. Can’t get that on a couch.”

Milo’s brain rejected the placation, demanding he rise and throw off Roland’s grip, but his body was plummeting onto the plush bed by the time it got the message. By then, it was too late. He was swimming in silken sheets, nestling in as his body remembered every bump and bruise of his time on the train and every danger since then. The bed seemed to swallow him, and with it came the oblivious embrace of sleep.

He vaguely felt someone tug his boots off as his feet dangled at the end of the bed, and then he was gone.

The hibernation of exhausted sleep was fractured for brief instances, but Milo was determined to fight off the distractions. Sometimes his eyes fluttered, and he got an unfocused glimpse of a long and sinewy figure stretched out beside him, not touching but desperately close. Other times his eyes didn’t even open as he felt the whisper of a breath across the back of his neck. The depths of exhaustion always won, and he was drowned anew by sleep.

When he finally emerged, it was by degrees, and that extended awakening time was a slippery and pernicious thing.

Milo felt as though he were ascending to the surface from slumber at the bottom of some black ocean. As he rose, he heard voices, muffled but insistent, and something that sounded like a snarled whisper. Then he became aware of bronze light through his eyelids, and it changed to red as it faded. After that, his eyes finally opened, but it took some time for him to remember where he was and what was going on.

He beheld Roland’s suite, melancholy and imperial, in the dying light of the sky outside and the fire within. He shivered at the sudden realization that it had become cold again and drew the sheets around him as he scanned the room with gummed, blinking eyes. He thought for a second that he was alone, then he saw Roland’s legs dangling from the end of the divan.

I wouldn’t have gotten much sleep on that, he thought, and just like that, he remembered everything. Heart leaping into his throat, his hand snaked down to his pocket and found it nearly empty. Licking dry lips, he checked to make sure Roland was not stirring and drew back the heaped sheets as quietly as he could.

Smeared across the folds of the sheets were several broad strokes of ash.

Cursing silently, he folded and piled the sheets to one side, glancing at Roland from time to time. The man didn’t stir, but Milo knew that could change in an instant. He’d always been able to spring from sleep to desperate action in an instant in their youth, and he couldn’t risk hoping things had changed.

Milo’s eyes slid to the fire, where his clothes were still laid out, though on closer examination, someone had done a far better job than he had of cleaning them in his absence. The ash he’d spilled around the fireplace this morning had been cleaned up and fresh wood added, though that must have been some time ago since there was a fresh layer of ash glowing under the grate. Checking one last time that Roland still wasn’t stirring, Milo slid out of bed and padded silently over to the fireplace.

With his breath sounding thunderous in