Free The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) by B. J. Beach

clear off. You ain’t one of us no more.”
    Hurt to the core but determined not to let it show, Karryl shrugged. “No matter. I just wanted to find out if Legs was alright.”
    The rest of the gang looked at each other askance before lowering their eyes. Tyke’s expression tightened. “‘E’s dead. Snuffed it with blood comin’ out ‘is nose and ears. Cryin’ for you, ‘e was.”
    Karryl choked back a sob, and swallowed hard. “Did you…did you…?
    Shoulders hunched, Tyke glanced behind him then back at Karryl. “We pitched ‘is corpse in the river, a half-month or more gone. ‘E was never the same after that do o’ your’n at the market.”
    A sensation he’d felt only too recently began to surge through Karryl’s body. Heart pounding, fists and teeth clenched, he fought for control. A red haze flickered behind eyes stinging with the heat of unshed tears.
    Tightening stomach muscles against the urge to vomit, he dropped his gaze, his voice a strained hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
    A silent and uncomfortable pause followed, broken by a firm grip on his shoulder making him wince.
    He heard Tyke release a deep regretful sigh. “Reckon you didn’t. We all took it bad.”
    An inappropriate and misplaced feeling of elation briefly overcame Karryl as the threatened surge of wild magic failed to manifest itself. He forced a weak smile as Tyke’s hand remained on shoulder.
    The older boy kept his voice low. “We ‘eard you’d fell on yer feet.” His quick grin took a wry twist. “It’s about time one of us ‘ad some luck. Now, like I said, clear off. We got work to do.”
    With a jerk of his head Tyke started his little gang moving. Slowly he slid his hand away from Karryl’s shoulder and started to follow after them, turning as he reached the far end of the long market stall.
    He raised a cocked thumb in brief salute. “See ya.”
    Then he and the gang of street-boys were gone, leaving Karryl standing alone. A chapter of his life discarded in a few short minutes, he stumbled to a nearby packing case. Dropping heavily onto it, and not giving a tinker’s cuss who saw him, he covered his face with his hands and cried bitter tears.
    * * *
    When he could cry no more, he took a few deep breaths and sat gazing into the middle distance, elbows on knees, as he gave his thoughts free rein. Persistently intruding, eventually to the exclusion of all else, was the realisation that he had been able to overcome the wilder magic which had once again threatened to engulf him. The spark of elation which had earlier glimmered only briefly, now re-ignited, growing steadily until his chest felt full to bursting with the strength of it. Overturning the packing case in his haste he set off, determined to cover the long incline towards the palace precincts and on to Symon’s tower as quickly as possible.
    Prompted by the tempting aromas drifting from a nearby hot pie stall, he paused, turning Symon’s silver coin over and over in his pocket, until an insistent growl from his stomach urged him forward. A couple of minutes later, a cluster of small change now jingling in his pocket, he was shifting a large and very hot meat and potato pie from hand to hand. Looking around for somewhere to sit and devour his feast, his glance fell on the broad steps of the city museum and its sheltering portico. A few tense moments of weaving through the jostling market throng brought him and his pie safely to the other side. With a sigh of relief he dashed up the half dozen steps and carefully sat down, leaning back against one of the portico’s tall pillars.
    He was just licking the last crumbs and traces of gravy from his fingers when the first large spots of rain began to fall from a sky which had been getting progressively darker, and was now a deep and ominous blackish purple. The distant rumble of thunder was enough to bring him to his feet. Not seeing any point in getting wet when he didn’t have to, he