Page 63 of Storm to Victory
“That was the reason for the invasion of Groyria earlier this year.” Dacha gave a slight nod, his eyes flinty. He spoke in Escarlish rather than elvish. “Mongavaria needed to begin exploiting your people on a broader scale. They needed your magic to combat mine.”
There was a pause as the younger woman translated. Then the older ogre woman gave a short, sharp nod, the eyes she turned on Dacha just as flinty as his. “My people’s magic has long been exploited. Humans have done so. The elves did so, in an age so long ago even the elves have forgotten. We can detectmagic in the young and control the magic of those newly come into their power. That is our true purpose.”
Something like that would, indeed, be powerful. An ogre with that magic could find out what type of magic a person would have while he or she was still a baby. The ogres could keep magic in check in a way few others could.
Dacha tipped his head to the elderly ogre. “I am sorry for what has been done to your people.”
The ogre nodded back, something in her eyes softening.
Time to turn the conversation back to the machine and what was happening with Fieran. Not that all this history wasn’t fascinating, but Fieran couldn’t appreciate it as much as he probably should while he was swallowing down his nausea and trying not to pass out with pain every time he breathed. “So all that to say, is there something you can do to fix whatever is going on with my magic?”
The younger ogre woman straightened and spoke, her words her own instead of translated. “Of course she can. My grandmother’s magic is strong. So strong that they put her on the machine several times, and they never could take her magic from her. She fought it off.”
Fieran gaped at the elderly woman in front of him. That was impressive. He knew better than anyone just how powerful that machine was when it came to clawing out magic.
The elderly woman gestured to him, and the younger ogre woman translated, “Unbutton your shirt.”
Fieran worked to unbutton his borrowed shirt with shaking fingers. When he gave her a nod, the elderly woman placed her hand on his chest, right at the same spot where the dots of dried blood marked where he’d been hooked to the machine.
Her hand didn’t glow or do anything else to indicate that she was using magic. Yet he felt the moment her magic reached deep within him, grasping that aching place inside him.
He cried out, lurching away from her as his magic rose inside him in a stab of pain.
Dacha’s hand gripped his shoulder, holding him steady. Yet his dacha also tensed, as if poised to defend Fieran from the ogre woman if she did anything to him.
The ogre woman’s magic retreated for a moment, although her hand remained on Fieran’s chest. “You are strong. The machine did not take your magic. But your magic is now dislocated within you, like a shoulder that is out of joint. You have experienced great pain in using it, yes?”
“Yes.” Fieran nodded, struggling to draw in a deep breath to settle his whirling head and churning stomach.
Dacha’s fingers tightened to near painful on Fieran’s shoulder. “Can you help him?”
“Indeed. I will move his magic back into place.” The ogre woman turned to Fieran, her granddaughter translating for her. “But it would be best if you refrained from using your magic for at least three days—a week would be better—to allow your magic to resettle back into its proper place in your body.”
A new bolt of fear and dread jolted through his stomach and increased the pain in his chest.
A week without using his magic—there was no way his dacha would let him use his magic before that—while they were here in enemy territory.
Dacha flexed his fingers on Fieran’s shoulder and cleared his throat. Even then, his voice was rough. “Will he have any long-term effects from using his magic while it was dislocated? My dachasheni died of a disease of the magic.”
“No, I don’t believe he will suffer any ill effects. But if he had not used his magic, then he would have needed only a day or two for his magic to resettle rather than a week.”
Good to know he wasn’t dying because of this—well, he was pretty sure he would die eventually if his magic was left as it was.But this ogre woman seemed pretty confident in what she was talking about.
Would refraining from using his magic for a week put Dacha in danger? Or Pip, wherever she was?
“Enough talking about it. Please just fix it.” Fieran gritted his teeth and pressed himself more firmly against the wall behind him.
The elderly ogre woman glanced from Dacha to Pretty Face, her words translated into Escarlish by her granddaughter. “Hold him still. This will hurt.”
Dacha changed his grip on Fieran’s shoulder to pinning him against the wall. With his free hand, he pinned Fieran’s hand to the floor. Pretty Face matched Dacha on the other side, his grip on Fieran’s shoulder and arm much less firm than Dacha’s.
Fieran squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself. “I don’t know why everyone always warns that stuff is going to hurt. Of course it’s going to hurt. It doesn’t really make—”
Her magic stabbed into his chest, clutched his magic, andshoved.
Fieran screamed and thrashed against the hands holding him. With the ogre magic so firmly wrapped around his, he didn’t even have to try to hold his magic back. It was incapable of rising to defend him.
Then the foreign magic released his, retreating from his body. He slumped against the wall, and when he gulped in a deep, gasping breath, it didn’t hurt. Sure, there was a faint ache, but it felt the same as the ache of healing magic working on a bone or the ache of a muscle after a good workout. The good kind of ache instead of the tearing pain of before.
