The Darkest Magic (A Book of Spirits and Thieves) by Morgan Rhodes Page A

rather than stay and fight me. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to survive my magic, let alone stop me. I’m going to find him. And when I do . . .” Maddox set his jaw into a tense block of pure resolution. “I’m going to kill him.”
    Barnabas stopped, turned, and grabbed Maddox by his shoulders. Anger flashed in his eyes, taking Maddox by surprise.
    “You are going to kill no one,” he growled. “Do you hear me?”
    Maddox glared up at him. “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “Have you ever killed anyone? Ever used your
magic
to kill anyone? Pushed, shoved, choked, made unconscious, yes—you’ve done all that very well. But killed?”
    Maddox’s chest tightened. “No. Not yet.”
    “You are not a murderer, Maddox. You must never kill. Not ever.”
    Barnabas had never made less sense. “How can you say that? You told me yourself what my magic made me—I’m a necromancer. My magic is
death
magic. Killing is one of the few things it lets me do.”
    Barnabas’s expression grew haunted. “When I first found you, you were nothing like what I expected. I’d expected you to be . . . darker. Empty. Because wielding dark magic blackens the soul.”
    Maddox was about to laugh; just the idea of a soul made “black” by a certain kind of magic was preposterous to him, but Camilla spoke before he could even crack a grin.
    “It’s true, boy,” she said. “I’ve seen it happen to witches far less powerful than you, who’ve foolishly tried to strengthen their naturally given powers with blood magic. No matter how good your heart is, that kind of dark power will turn it black, cold, and shriveled.”
    The urge to laugh had passed entirely. Maddox thought back to when he’d used his magic, to when he’d really channeled it for the first time to strike unconscious a guard who’d been about to execute an accused witch. The most vivid thing he could remember about it—other than his victim’s dull and lifeless appearance—was the sensation of a cold darkness rising up inside of him.
    Even now, he wasn’t sure if he’d been scared of it or if he’d liked it.
    “So, what then?” Maddox said in the most biting tone he’d used in days. “We just let Goran get away with it?”
    “No,” Barnabas said. “Just like you, I plan to find him. And when I do, I’ll kill him myself. Don’t worry, I have no death magic to corrupt my already shadowy soul.”
    “Then the matter is settled,” Camilla said, her kind smile returning. “Now, let’s focus on finding the goddess’s scribe so we can torture some information out of him, shall we?”
    • • •
    When they finally reached the palace, they found they were among at least a thousand other visitors, all milling about in the royal square.
    The massive palace—a monstrous masterpiece of black granite set into the rocky cliffs—cast a jagged shadow over the crowd.
    Maddox nudged a tall man jockeying for space beside him. “What’s going on?” he asked.
    The crowd began to cheer.
    “The goddess is about to make a speech,” the tall man said, nodding his head up toward a balcony chiseled high into the granite palace.
    Maddox drew his hood closer around his face and looked up at the forbidding palace from their position at the back of the crowd. He had barely a moment to register the vast impressiveness of the craftsmanship when a flash of crimson appeared against the backdrop of blackest granite. It was the goddess, gliding out onto the balcony in a brilliant red gown. Her shining ebony hair cascaded over her shoulders, falling down well past her waist in waves. Even from a distance, Maddox could see the sharp and vivid boundaries of her dark red lips and emerald green eyes.
    Unsmilingly, she raised her hand. The crowd went silent.
    Maddox chanced a look at Barnabas, who glared up at the goddess with hatred in his eyes.
    Valoria began to speak. “Much gratitude for your presence today, my citizens,” she intoned, her voice smooth yet menacing, like