I would typically agree that you should spend some time in jail after tying up a child, but this situation calls for an exception.

  In Uncle Thorne’s room, we’ve shoved aside some books to make the place look even more like a tornado whipped through. There’s more than one way to tie up a wizard, and Ulfgar has chosen his method. The kid’s like a mummy with rope circling him repeatedly, starting at his feet and up over his head, ending with a bow on his back. The beginner’s knot exposes Ulfgar’s lack of contribution while sailing. The little wizard’s left arm is pinned to his side while the other is awkwardly over his head, beneath the hempen prison. As strange as it appears, it is impossible for a spell to get cast, which is all we need.

  “Then, Zane was levitating in the air, and the boy flung him across the room into the bar! Wham! Hit his head on the counter!” Ulfgar laughs the whole time, retelling the story. My hand unconsciously rubs my head, where a welt forms underneath my hair.

  “That’s how he wrote that bounty up and down the Lighthouse. He could lift charcoal up there,” Thorne says with a hand raised pensively to a chin.

  The child squirms and manages to free the cloth gag from their mouth. “Vrek you! Vrek you and your mothers!”

  “A boy wizard with the vocabulary of a sailor,” I say.

  “I’m not a boy, you scat-faced morons.” In our defense, it’s difficult to tell with her hair recently cut down to the skin from the procedure. The scar parting her head is still fresh.

  “Why do you want me dead?” I ask.

  “Your father killed mine. My tuition at Yon’Thrak hasn’t been paid, and my life is over.”

  “You used your last money just to put a bounty on me?”

  “Ten marks isn’t nearly enough. It would take me a vrekking lifetime to save up for Yon’Thrak. Besides, I needed revenge, and someone had to pay,” the little wizard says.

  “It’s only fair. Blood for blood,” Ulfgar says.

  “Shut up, Ulfgar.” My uncle buries his face in a palm.

  “Kid, what’s your name?” I kneel to reach her level rather than look down at her.

  “Why should I tell you?” Her nose wrinkles up in disgust.

  “Because I want to help you, and it’s easier to help someone when you know their name. Especially when they just tried to have you killed.”

  She seems to dwell on this statement before her name finally escapes, “Nimue.”

  “Nimue, how about the Blood Coins pay for your tuition at Yon’Thrak?”

  Uncle Thorne coughs loudly like he’s about to die from the plague. “Zane, let me have a word with you. In the Vault, where it’s private.”

  “Fine.”

  “Ulfgar, guard the caster.”

  “No problem.” Ulfgar takes a seat at Uncle’s desk and picks up a book upside down at first before flipping it around.

  I haven’t been down to the vault since I was very young. Silver marks paved the floor, and gold coins from around the world piled up to the ceiling along the walls. Treasures of all sorts lay on top of the stacks as if afterthoughts. Golden lamps. Gem-inlaid weapons. Bizarre ancient artifacts, like a wooden cube with glowing glass orbs on each side. The room smelled like metal; whenever I got my hands on a gold coin, my memory would transport me back to that room.

  We march down the stone stairwell and pass the cellar. As we approach the vault door, the air gets heavy, and it is difficult to breathe.

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  Now that I’m older, the giant steel door isn’t as intimidating. Thorne moved three dials on the door, each with dozens of sigils to choose from. I think the combination depends on the sun's and the moon's positions, but no one has ever told me. Once, Father brought me to the vault, and he had trouble with the combination. “Vrekking dwarves,” he said, and then had to stand outside looking at the sky pensively for a few minutes before trying again.

  Thorne has less trouble opening it. He spins the wheel on the front of the vault door, which opens with a loud clang that reverberates into the empty room.

  Empty.

  I take that back. There are two marks on the floor.

  “This is it? What happened?”

  “We’ve had some bad luck, and the Blood Coins have a generous payout to families upon death. Couple that with some investments that have been poorly timed.” He looks pitiful, but he wants me to feel that way. He doesn’t want me to press him for more information.

  “The Blood Coins are finished,” I say. Decades of my family’s work had gone into this mercenary group, and now their legacy is just an echoing chamber without a single shred of gold to show for it. I walk over and pick up the two lonely marks off the ground. “Here’s your pension,” I say after dropping one of the silver rounds into my uncle’s palm.

  “Zane, I showed you this so you would know why we can’t pay for that little twirp’s wizarding. I also wanted you to see why we need you. Now more than ever.”

  “I can’t fix an empty vault, Uncle. Besides, why would I give up wizardry for sellswording? Which is a better life?”

  “Wizards the world over work for rich people in exchange for a room, two meals a day, and a guard’s salary. What’s the difference?” Thorne’s getting upset. “At least here, your master is a contract of your choosing.”

  He’s making a lot of sense. And, as much as I hate the thought of leading a group of trained killers, what would they do otherwise? They would be soldiers in a tyrannical army or pirates. Here, at least, I could nudge their destructive powers in a constructive way. “Let me think about it.”

  We head back up the stairwell to Thorne’s room, and as my steps echo off the stone walls, I think of all the questions I will need to ask Uncle later. Back in the room, Ulfgar has its feet up on the desk. “Some guard,” says Nimue. Her left arm is slightly freer than before, having shimmied a bit.

  I kneel beside her again. “It won’t replace your parents, but I will give you my spot at Yon’Kor. Tuition is paid for a few years at a time. You can continue learning there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but you have to agree not to kill me.”

  “Not kill you? Forever? No deal.”

  “Fine. No killing me for...twenty years then.”

  Nimue looks up at the ceiling, and she’s mulling this over now. We’re close to an agreement. “Ten.”

  “Deal.” Oh, I’ve forgotten one detail. “And you have to drop this ridiculous bounty.”

  “Fine, but in ten years, you’re dead,” she says. I shake the hand that’s pinned over her head by the rope before untying the bow knot in the back with a simple tug.

  She stands, brushes off her outfit, and then a mischievous grin grows. She puts her fists near each other and screams, “Vashar!” We all grab at the handles of our weapons and brace for something to happen, but then she says, “Look at you cowards,” and smiles.

  Vashar.

  It’s a word shrouded in mystery. Whenever someone casts a spell, whether on their own or with another, they must say this word. Either audibly or in their mind. As I learned at Yon’Kor, nobody knows for sure what it means. There is an ancient language where the word means, please, as if you’re asking for the universe to grant you its power. Others believe it’s the name of God.

  “Very funny,” I say.

  At this, Ulfgar finally wakes up, looks around in a stupor, and asks, “What’s funny?”

  Later that evening, it’s finally time to conduct a ceremony for my father. Torches light the front of the headquarters, and they crackle loudly in the slight breeze. The green grime has been scrubbed from the bronze discs embedded in the front wall, and they now gleam. There’s a spot open for my father.

  Dozens of stories get told to the crowd. There are more than just Blood Coins here. Local politicians, priests, merchants, and folk arrive to pay their respects. Finally, my uncle hands me my father’s disc. It bears his name across the top and a rough rendering of his face on the front.

  While it’s in my hands, energy flows into me. It’s electric. Powerful. My muscles tense, and I feel like my father is beside me. My chest hurts as the pain of his loss finally finds me. I’ve fought it for so long, but I also can’t ignore the physical feeling of holding this disc, the current running through me. It’s like I’m about to cast a spell. I feel love and loss and sorrow all at once, and I swear there’s an arm over my shoulder. A strong wind blows out the torches.

  “Vashar,” I whisper. Starting at my fingertips, a layer of liquid steel rolls over my skin and covers my entire body. The crowd behind me yells, a mix of confusion and panic.

  I’ve just cast a spell without a partner, and it’s the same magic that my father and I would create when he was alive.