The Scepter of Fire. Морган Райс

the black void of nothingness, Christopher Blue felt a whooshing sensation, like magnets being pulled together. It was a horrible feeling, and one he’d become painfully accustomed to—the sensation of his atoms coming back together. He knew what came next, once he’d been reassembled in his human form: the tearing, splitting, wrenching feeling of being torn apart, atom by atom, all over again. How many times had he gone through it now? A hundred? A million? Had he been stuck in this endless, miserable loop for days or years? There was no way of knowing. All he knew was the ongoing push and pull of the void, the feeling of all-consuming hatred, and the name Oliver.

      Oliver. His brother. The object of his intense hatred. The reason he’d ended up here.

      There was nothing else in the void. No noise. No light. Just that terrible feeling of his atoms stuck in a loop of being pulled apart and coming back together. But Chris still had his memories, and they repeated as frequently as the atom tears did. He remembered Oliver. Of his moment of cowardice in ancient Italy when he’d realized he could not kill him. And he remembered the portals closing in on him, ripping him apart limb from limb and sending him to this place between time. He dwelled on his memories as he went through cycle after painful cycle.

      Then, suddenly, something changed. There was light.

      Light? Chris thought.

      He’d almost forgotten such a thing existed.

      But here it was. A brightness. A glow. A blinding sort of light that made his eyes hurt. How long had it been since he’d seen light? Twenty seconds? Twenty years? Either answer seemed perfectly plausible to Chris.

      The light seemed to be growing ever brighter, until before Chris knew it, it was everywhere. The blackness that had been his reality had been replaced by this sudden light. And then, with a whooshing noise that seemed to come from all directions, Chris suddenly found himself somewhere. Not nowhere anymore, but somewhere. Somewhere with a stone-tiled floor—cold against his stomach—and a smell in the air like an old, dank castle. Smell, like light, was something Chris had all but forgotten. Touch, too. Yet suddenly all those sensations were here.

      The tiles against his stomach were hard in contrast to the fleshiness of his body. The air was chilly, and he felt a light breeze pass over his skin.

      Body! Chris thought. Skin!

      Laughing, Chris grabbed his torso, moving his hands all over it, feeling the ribs and the collar bone and all the squishy flesh. He laughed again as it dawned on him that he was no longer in the void of nothing, floating around in his smallest components, but was back in one piece, one solid piece. And that one solid piece was back in reality.

      Now, he just had to work out what reality he was in.

      He heaved himself up to sitting and looked around. The room was familiar. Crimson walls like fresh blood. A big, wooden throne. A conference table made of oak. A high, vaulted ceiling. A glass cabinet filled with vials of potions and weapons. A window, through which gray light filtered in.

      He stood, his legs wobbling, and went over to the window. It overlooked a large grassy field that stretched all the way to a line of forest trees, black silhouettes on the horizon.

      Grass! Chris thought with delight. Trees!

      He’d forgotten all about them. And seeing them now sent peals of delight rippling through his body. His laughter turned to hysteria.

      “Christopher Blue,” came a cold female voice.

      With a gasp, Chris swirled on the spot. There was a woman standing in the room. A scowling woman wearing a long black cloak that reached the floor. Her arms were folded.

      The name came back to Chris with sudden ferocity: Mistress Obsidian.

      A jolt of terror went through him. He staggered backward until he collided with the stone wall and there was nowhere left to shrink to.

      “You…” he stammered. “You’re the one who tortured me!”

      It was all starting to come back to Chris now.

      “That was your punishment,” Mistress Obsidian said without even the smallest hint of remorse. “For failing me. For going against my expressed command. I can do it to you again. Anytime I want.”

      Chris shook his head. He felt like he was reaching the verge of insanity. Just knowing he could be sent back to that place of turmoil, of unending agony, was enough to send his mind reeling.

      “Please, no,” he begged, falling to his knees. “Please don’t send me back.”

      “Get up, you sniveling wretch,” Mistress Obsidian said. “Begging won’t save you.”

      “Then what will?” he asked desperately, heaving himself to his feet. “What can I do to make sure I never go back to that place?”

      “Follow my instructions,” she replied. “And kill Oliver Blue.”

      Oliver…

      That name had been all that had accompanied Chris during his time in the void. Oliver, his little brother. For years he’d hated him. Wanted nothing more than to hurt him and make him suffer. And then for reasons he no longer understood, he’d balked at the last second. Just when he’d had Oliver, he’d changed his mind and let him go.

      But Chris realized now, he would not change his mind again. There wasn’t the smallest hint of compassion left in him. Not toward Oliver. Not toward anyone. His time in the void seemed to have extinguished any positive feelings he’d ever had, leaving behind just the anger, just the fear, just the hatred.

      “I will not fail you again,” Chris told Mistress Obsidian. “I will kill Oliver Blue.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      Oliver’s stomach swirled. He hated the sensation of portal travel. It didn’t matter how many times he went through it, it was always unpleasant.

      Purple flashing lights blinded him. A noise like crashing waves made his ears ache. And the whole time, he looked about frantically behind him to see where his friends were, desperate for evidence that they’d jumped too, that they’d followed him into the portal and had escaped the School for Seers before it had collapsed.

      Just then, he caught sight of Hazel’s butterscotch hair. A jolt of relief went through him. She was flailing in the vortex, being tossed around like a piece of flotsam in a current. Then Ralph came into view, his black hair flying every which way, his long, thin limbs moving as though he were doggy paddling and trying desperately to stay above water.

      Oliver watched as Ralph whooshed up beside Hazel, and the two of them managed to clasp hands. They reminded him of synchronized skydivers. Without parachutes, of course, at the mercy of the elements, being thrown about all over the place like they were feathers caught up in a tornado.

      As relieved as Oliver was to see Hazel and Ralph, there was still no sign of Walter, Simon, or Esther. Oliver prayed they’d made it through the portal in time. Especially Esther. It would be far too cruel of a blow for the universe to take her from him now, after everything they’d just gone through to save her life.

      “Hazel!” Oliver cried over the loud, whooshing wind. “Ralph! Over here!”

      Somehow, in spite of the roaring wind, Oliver’s voice was able to carry all the way to his friends. They both glanced up at him and relief flickered for a moment in their otherwise fearful eyes.

      “Oliver!” Hazel cried, her tone seeped in relief.

      Oliver was surprised that he was able to hear her so loudly and clearly. He’d expected her voice to be swallowed by the wind, as would usually happen during portal travel. He wondered why that wasn’t happening in this one. Maybe it was a different kind of portal from the ones he’d traveled through before. Professor Amethyst had conjured it under duress, after all.

      Using his arms, Oliver swam breaststroke toward his friends. He grabbed them and they held onto one another tightly.

      “Where are the others?” Ralph cried, glancing furtively around.

      Oliver