You're the Voice, try and understand it

You’re the Voice, try and understand it

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Malas said gently. “We can bring in one of the others.”

Alania fidgeted, but she shook her head. “No. It’s my duty. I’m the newest member of the Council, so…” she gave a hollow laugh. “It feels so weird to say that, after I’ve been on this damned Council for so many years. What does that say?”

“That the Voice doesn’t get replaced very often, and one would expect many years between appointments?”

“Or that we’re a bunch of complacent old fuddy-duddies who aren’t replaced nearly often enough.”

“Or that.” Malas settled his blindfold over his eyes and stuck the earplugs in his ears. He held out a hand, and Alania gave him the noise cancelling headphones to put on over the plugs. “You ready?”

Alania took a deep, bracing breath, gave a thumbs-up to the security camera in the corner, and ushered in the Voice.

Points, he was young. She knew he was young; she’d been teaching him basic magical theory for a semester. She’d been braced for this to happen to one of her students since the previous Voice died. That didn’t make it any easier.

“How are you feeling, Allen?” she asked.

“F-fine, Instruktanto.” He swallowed.

“There’s no need to be scared,” she said, which was a straight-up fucking lie. “You’re very lucky. You’ve been chosen for a very important and prestigious job.”

He nodded, glancing at the blindfolded doctor in the corner.

“He’s fine. He’s just here to help. Arthur explained to you what’s going on, right?”

He nodded. “Will it hurt?”

“Only for a second.” Alania didn’t understand why they couldn’t do this procedure under anaesthesia, have an actual surgeon do it. With Allen knocked out, Malas would be able to safely perform it himself without fear of a geas. But no; tradition was tradition, apparently. And tradition meant all of this nonsense of removing Malas’ senses to make him immune, and have the room monitored from far away to protect Alania, from a scared child who probably didn’t understand the full extent of his powers yet. ‘He can handle it, or the spell wouldn’t have chosen him’, was the consensus. Fuck the consensus.

But Alania had a job to do. “Sit down and close your eyes,” she said with a reassuring smile. She guided him to the seat next to Malas, then took Malas’ hand and rested it on the boy’s arm. “It’ll only sting for a second,” she repeated. “it’s like getting a shot at the hospital.”

Allen nodded and tipped his head back. Alania stared at the soft, vulnerable throat for a second, and then drew her very clean, very sharp knife.

Her hand trembled with both nervousness and age, but Alania had spent enough years in the lab handling delicate reagents to know how to quiet that. She raised the blade and, in a swift, sure strike, cut the boy’s throat.

Malas’ spells picked up the change in his condition immediately. Allen barely had time to jerk backwards before Malas’ hand was on his throat, blue magic seeping into the wound to seal muscle and tendon and artery and oesophagus. Malas pulled his bloodstained hand back, and Alania grabbed a damp cloth to clean up the evidence of the wound as quickly as possible, before it could really sink in for Allen.

“There, there, all done,” she murmured. “You were very brave.”

Allen glanced at Malas. “Is he…?”

“He’s fine. He’s not allowed to see or hear you any more.”

“Why?”

“It’s just tradition,” she lied. It was tradition, this whole procedure was, but the procedure did have a point. Malas had not sealed Allen’s wound with magic that was intended to be replaced over time; the blue streak across his throat was permanent. It was the Council’s insurance policy against the strongest compulsion spell that Refujeyo had. Malas could never see or hear the Voice because there must be absolutely no chance that he’d ever be laid under a geas. And if the Voice used his power to start a coup or something, turned it on the Council or the Circle or the Inquisition, then Malas’ job was to revoke that magic and let him die.

When Allen had a chance to think about the situation, when he realised that his throat wasn’t healing, he’d piece together that he’d been placed on a leash. He’d probably be angry about it, but he’d understand the necessity. He’d grow into his role, his very prestigious and honourable role, as one of the most powerful mages in Refujeyo. They always did.

Alania guided the boy out of the room, into the company of happy, high-ranking mages ready to congratulate him on his spell and tell him how important he was, to give him as little time as possible to think about the trauma of the Pit and the ceremony and help him remember this as a day to remember fondly. Then she turned back to take Malas’ blindfold off.

“All went well?” he asked, pulling his earplugs out.

She nodded.

“Are you okay?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve done far, far more distasteful things in the service of Refujeyo than that.”

“I know. You just seem…”

“He was one of my students, and he was innocent. He’ll get over it and so will I. It’s unimportant.” She handed him a rag to clean the blood off his hands. “Hey, Malas.”

“Yes?”

“How many of those have you done?”

“Too many.”

“And the… the magic…”

“Maintaining a little wound seal like that is absolutely no problem. You know how much artificial flesh I’m maintaining all the time. I don’t even notice him.”

“Of course. Well. I’m going to join that party, and drink an unwise amount of alcohol. Care to join me?”

“I can’t. I have patients in the ward. Have fun, though.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And Alania…”

“It’s for the best, I know. Turning something so dangerous into an asset. It’s for his good as well as ours.”

“Yeah. Enjoy the party.”