“Hypothetically speaking,” I said, “if a family had produced halcyons and only halcyons for over four generations, why would a repeat application of the Osiris serum result in an awakening of a mind hammer?”
The Keeper leaned back. “Michael, the Fata Magum, please.”
Michael retrieved a box from a shelf, brought it to the Keeper, and resumed his post three steps away. The Keeper opened the ornate wooden box and took out a small six-sided die, red like crystalized blood. Greek letters were carved into the die and inlaid with ivory, one per side.
The Keeper held it up to the light and the die sparkled. A ruby?
“The fate of the mage.” The Keeper showed me one side with the Greek letter Z. “Zeta. Sacrifice.”
He turned the die to display a different side. “Beta. Demon.”
Another turn. “Lambda. Growth. The three fates awaiting those who risk the serum. Death, distortion, or power.”
Those who took the serum died, became warped by it, or gained magic, from which they then acquired wealth and power.
The Keeper held it out to me.
I reached out and he let the die fall into my palm. Six sides, three unique symbols, each occurring twice.
“Make your roll.”
I let the cool smooth cube fall from my fingers. The die landed on the table, rolled and stopped. Zeta.
“Death,” I said.
“This die was carved in 1865, for the second wave of Osiris recipients,” the Keeper said. “Countless would-be mages held it in their hands and rolled it just like you did before making their final decision. A great many of them walked away after making their roll.”
The die glinted on the table.
“Why do you think some people died and others didn’t?” the Keeper asked.
“Nobody knows. It’s magic, not science.”
“But if you had to hazard a guess . . .”
I had read a couple of books on Magic Theory, but most of my current reading focused on practical applications. “There are five leading theories, most of them agreeing that the serum kills those without latent magical powers. Various factors have been considered, such as diet, exposure to the flu pandemic, and so on. The records from that time are understandably murky . . .”
The Keeper raised his hand and I fell silent.
“Yes, but you are a Prime, the highest rank of a magic user who has used your power since birth. I want to know what you think.”
“I think that in all three cases the Osiris serum does exactly what it was designed to do. It searches for latent abilities and makes them manifest. It’s not that those who die aren’t capable of magic, it’s that it is too powerful or too destructive, and their bodies cannot handle it. It is the same with the warped. The magic twists them because their power is too great to be contained. Perhaps those who survive intact and become mages are not the strongest, but the weakest. Nobody can predict what the die will show.”
The Keeper smiled. “Exactly.”
I felt like I had just passed a test.
“If we apply your theory to someone who was born without power, despite their bloodline, and chooses to roll the die, what is the serum to do? The subject has the magic of their family but is incompatible with it. So the serum must look for something other than that power, some hidden traces of other talents from other bloodlines gifted to the subject by previous generations. Perhaps these talents are too weak to express themselves, yet the secondary application of the serum helps them rise to the surface.”
So, there was a false halcyon talent hiding somewhere in Kaylee’s bloodline, too weak to manifest without the boost of Osiris serum. The two types of magic were closely related. It wouldn’t be unusual if sometime long ago there was marriage that resulted in an offspring carrying propensity for both. Their family could have gone generations without discovering it.
It made sense. My sisters and I all had the same parents. I carried hereditary traces for both Arabella’s and Nevada’s powers. Ten generations from now, one of my descendants could manifest as a truthseeker and never know why. That’s why genetic databases keeping track of magic bloodlines were doing such a brisk business.
“I like the way you rolled the die,” the Keeper said. “You didn’t blow on it, you didn’t shake it or toss it. You simply let it fall. Rolling that die and truly accepting the consequences is a choice none of us in this room had to make. Our ancestors made it for us and paid a great price for it. We honor their bravery through abiding by the covenants they created. The ban on unauthorized use of the serum is such a covenant. The covenants must be upheld at any cost. Those of us who understand that fact hold our duties sacred. We don’t tolerate any interference, do we, Michael?”
“No, we don’t,” Michael said.
Chapter 7
The elevator doors shut, and the cabin carried us down.
“Let’s not do that again,” Mom murmured.
“Agreed,” Cornelius said.
“I thought you’d stay in the lobby,” I murmured back.
“I tried. The Keeper came and got me in person.”
An audience with the Keeper wasn’t difficult to get, but I couldn’t think of any occasion where he’d come down and personally invited someone up to his office.
Those of us who understand that fact hold our duties sacred.
Like the Office of Records, the Office of the Warden guarded the current social order. Both institutions had to be incorruptible, because we protected the foundations of our society. As twisted and dysfunctional as it was, it was better than the free-for-all where the strongest ruled without limitations. We’d tried that during the Time of Horrors, and it’d almost ended humanity.
The Keeper saw me as a colleague of sorts, someone who, like him, placed themselves between order and chaos. He treated me and my mother with courtesy. Sadly, courtesy didn’t mean assistance. If we were attacked in the parking lot in front of the building, the Keeper and his creepy sidekick wouldn’t lift a finger to help us.
We reached the lobby and collected our weapons and Gus. I handed the Rattler to Mom. She checked it, and we walked to the glass entrance together.
It was past eight. The sun was beginning to set, and the world turned dimmer. Twilight dripped into the parking lot. Twenty-foot-tall lamps, four per metal pole, had come on, flooding the parking lot with bright electric light.
“Stay here,” I told her. “I’ll get the car and pick you up.”
I could see the calculation in Mom’s eyes. I would make it faster to the protection of the armored car on my own. She would only slow me down and Cornelius and Gus would present extra targets.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll cover you.”
I exited the doors and jogged across the parking lot. Mom and Cornelius stepped out of the lobby, close enough to duck back in, and waited.
The lane stretched in front of me. I kept moving, taking a quick inventory of the other cars. Seven or eight SUVs, several trucks, a few sedans, no doubt some of them armored. A lot of vehicles despite the hour. In the distance, a good hundred yards away from Rhino, someone had parked a food truck painted a ghastly lime green with orange letters promising “flaming tacos.” A bad place to leave a food truck. If they didn’t move it, it would be gone by morning.
Rhino loomed in front of me. I grabbed the door handle, swung it open, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I shut the door, putting B7 ballistic armor between me and the world outside, and braced myself.
Nothing.
I started the engine. It roared, reassuringly steady. I reversed and drove toward the entrance. Mom and Cornelius started toward me.
I pulled up just outside the red line that marked the kill zone around the building. A moment and the doors swung open, and then Mom, Cornelius, and Gus were in the car. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and turned left, into the next row, heading down through a corridor of parked cars toward Stadium Drive. I would only be on it for a minute. Once I made a left onto Old Spanish Trail, I could blend in with traffic.