The echoes of our footsteps doubled back on us in the narrow hallways, my bare feet softer and Winsor's stiff boot soles sharper against the cold stone. There were no remaining carpets or decor on the walls to absorb the noise. Although it was a tower, it was very different from the weather tower I'd climbed earlier with Bernard.

That had been a narrow climb straight up, meant to elevate, not occupy. This tower was built to house many people. Rooms hosted rotting bunk bed frames pressed tight together, mold filled basins that once held water for bathing and small water closets. Most of the outer rooms of the ruin had long since been looted, only broken and dilapidated skeletons of furniture that would have been too much trouble to steal remained. We reached the kitchen, identified by its distinctive multitude of hearths, with cabinets hanging open, their shelves empty. Not even mice scurried anymore.

While we were poking around, I remembered my previous conversation outside.

"So why would it be for your own well-being if you didn't have to heal Flatchert? You wouldn't be feeling the injury," I asked.

Winsor leaned against one of the old heavy wooden tables, its surface worn by centuries of preparing vegetables and other foodstuffs by the chefs' knives. One of his fingers worried a ridge in it.

"Casting spells isn't equivalent to using magical creatures to craft enchantment. A spell can change the way something is for a while, maybe a very long while, but the second the magic stops being cast, the affected object or element reverts to its natural state."

"But you healed me and I'm still fine. You're not chanting that spell anymore," I said, pointing at my formerly bruised eye.

"Yes, that's because I've allocated some magic to be continuously used to maintain your healing. Of course, one day, probably in a few weeks, judging by the severity of your injuries, you'll be actually recovered. I can drop the spell, and you won't notice any difference."

"So if Flatchert injured herself and you healed her..."

"Yes, I'd have to set aside even more magic that I couldn't touch until she had naturally recovered. Same thing with the weather. It rained when Sir Osoro, who is liable for the weather this week, dropped the spell when he lost his powers," Winsor said. "The only way to make a change permanent is to use the life and bodies of magical creatures, like fairies, hexasteers—"

"Moon Giants," I said.

"That is true, if you used Moon Giant blood you actually do heal right away. It's them trading something physical, tangible... a sacrifice of sorts," Winsor giggled. "Of course, you know that. Too bad she wasn't with you when you got injured. Or now. She is so very fetching."

"Yes." Act smug now. Soon I'd make my move and Winsor would be confessing where Mallow was. "Too bad."

Silence filled the room. Winsor scanned the dusty, looted kitchen, Then he fake coughed. "Doesn't seem to be anything on the first floor," Winsor said, pushing away from the table and clapping his hands together. "Let us ascend to the second floor."

"Second floor?" I hadn't seen a stairwell.

"Yes, second floor." Winsor moved back out to the main meeting room. He pointed up at the ceiling. Above us, instead of a chandelier, was a large wooden door, circular shaped. An iron gate held glass panes that moonlight filtered through. Wait? How was moon light filtering through, this ruin was at least five floors tall...

"Make the two of us light as a feather,

ascend both no fuss, no earthly tether,

rise toward that door,

so we reach the next floor." Winsor chanted.

I felt myself tingle. The telltale glow lighted me and my clothes before fading.

The wall behind Winsor seemed to sink, as we lifted and then hung in the air in unison. We didn't fall back down. It reminded me of when he had been levitating in the dungeon. Or when he spun me around in the hall, although this was much less traumatic.

"Come along." He waved a hand. I looked at my own feet. I didn't have much choice in the matter. I was already floating ceiling wards. I worried the force would take me too far up. I braced for the painful impact. I was pleasantly surprised when I stopped next to Winsor, like I wanted to.

"How much magic do you have in you in one day?" I asked. Winsor smoothed out his robe, which was threatening to drift above his knees. I saw he was wearing violet colored leggings beneath the robe, not nude legged like I'd assumed.

"Enough to be a fine sorcerer. There are no stairs here," he began, diverting the attention from himself, "to ensure that only those the sorcerers desired could draw near." He spun in a circle, gesturing at the ground below us. "Sorcerers used to live in towers like this with all their servants and their personal army. Invaders would have to fight through the army and kill the servants before they could divert attention to getting a ladder pressed up here." He floated up another few feet, until he was at the circle of glass. "Assuming the ladder wasn't shattered in the battle, any sort of climbing implement would be the first target of the sorcerer's loyal followers." He pushed on it and grunted. I hurried over, somehow intuitively swimming through the air, until I was next to him. I pushed as well, but with no place to anchor myself to, I couldn't exert any force on the door.

"Now swing open door that is sealed; let the passageway be revealed." The door sprung open. Winsor climbed up through the portal first, and I swam after him. Once on the floor above, he uncast the floating spell. I fell to the ground, the sudden force that drew my feet to the floor seeming oppressive in comparison to free floating. Winsor closed the heavy door with some difficulty.

The lack of stairs had worked; the invading looters had not touched this precious space. Portraits hung on the wall, oil soaked canvases in golden, gilded frames. The range was amazing. Portraits from the Ancient Times, painted using lost techniques so that they resembled real people. The people in them wore robes, like Winsor's. I wondered if I'd ever seen anyone outside an ancient painting also sharing his fashion sense. They were so archaic on him. The shadows between the folds were even deeper and darker in the dreary night. The only light came down from the center of the room, moonlight pouring from a door that was above our heads, aligned with the one beneath our feet.

"Darkness where danger is likely to flock, through casting light your invasion I block," Winsor said. A light swirled to life in his hand. It spun gently, and he scanned around the room.

The furniture was sparse but extravagant. A large rectangular council table was near one wall, its heavy legs embellished with a thousand tiny carvings depicting the magic and mundane alike. I hurried over to one of the chairs. I threw myself down in it.

"Aaaah," I said. "This is so comfortable." I squirmed against the cushion behind me. "What is this?"

"It's stuffed... velvet," Winsor said, frowning at me in disapproval.

The expression melted as he leaned down and ran a hand over the table. "Ah, it's been forever since I've been here."

"You used to visit here? Why did you stop?" I asked.

"Yes, it was my shelter for a few years... until my brother's friends found out it was precious to me and they tormented it as they torment me. The only way to save this place was to disavow any affection." He moved over to one corner of the room near a large mantle. He pointed at the ground. My eyes followed the center crack of a shattered marble bust. I got off of the chair. He slid his fingers through the soft powder that had formed from where it had smashed into the floor, lifting half of a carved eye into his cupped palm as he did so.

"Who was that?"

"Talmundius Reglarun," he said. "He ruled this area 500 years ago." He let the pebbles run from his hand back to the ground. He spun and moved to the door, throwing it open and stepping through. I stared back at the broken artwork done in the old style. It was half a man's face. Narrow, like Winsor's. I lingered for a minute more. Something cut across my concentration.

A wail, high pitched and tear choked. I jumped out of fright, drawing my knife and spinning completely around for the culprit. Had I even heard a scream? It could have been the wind.

"Let's continue our search. If someone is dishonoring this place, they will answer to me." Despite his brave words, Winsor shook as we walked through the halls. He trod carefully, his robe not getting caught on the uneven cobblestone as often as my bare toes. I yelped after splitting open my little toe, hopping on one foot. This unsettled Winsor's nerves more, and his voice cracked as he scolded me.

"Why didn't you buy shoes yet?"

"After wearing a pair of your brother's—"

Winsor's glared at me over his shoulder. I could tell he was glaring even though his bangs covered his eyes because of the way his mouth was pulled down at the corner.

"Quiet!" He did hate Bernard, maybe I shouldn't have said that.

"You're the one who asked—"

"So I don't get violent, I demand Azark be silent!" he cast. I opened my mouth and yet only a small, silent puff of air came out. I tried again, my tongue working helplessly. Winsor then cupped a hand behind his ear, listening.

"I thought I heard something, but it's quiet now," he muttered. The light in his hand bounced gently as he stepped forward. I followed, not wanting to fall outside the small sphere of illumination, even though I was annoyed with him. We entered a room. Set up in it were two fresh beds, the down stuffed quilts folded neatly and set against well puffed pillows. It didn't smell like dust as the main room had. Winsor inhaled through his teeth, whistling with anxiety. He pointed at the beds.

"Isn't that weird how there's a made bed, and the ashes in the fire... Is that an ember? Someone has recently slept in the tower," Winsor whispered. "Oh, remove the hex that constricts the words coming from Azark's necks."

"Thank you for your mercy Enchanted One," I said, keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. I scratched the space between my shoulder and my neck as a rash there itched. It developed into a small lump as I irritated it with my fingers. Then, it swelled. I gave a small shout.

"Quiet fool, do you want to—" Then he stumbled backward in mortified silence. His pale hand twitched as he held it over his mouth, stifling a scream.

The lump under my hand continue to grow. I tried to push it down, and then my eyes felt funny. Groaning, I stumbled and my shoulder cried. I was looking at the ceiling and at Winsor at the same time, but not from the same point of view. The images overlapped.

"You've a monster growing out of you!" he cried. "The rumors were true! The tower is haunted!"

"A monster?" I said. My vision was still too much, too many angles. I closed my eyes just to shut out the confusion. Twisting to where the burning pain was erupting on my shoulder, I then opened my eyes. I watched my eyelashes, golden and fetching over my blue eyes, part. How was I seeing them? I saw my face was growing out of the mound on my shoulder.

It was too much and a headache cracked down the center of my head.

"Do something!" I moaned twice. One was normal words, the other a half formed hiss from my toothless, still growing second mouth.

"I will! I'm going to banish the other being. Hold still!" Winsor cried frantically. He shook out his hands, and then, taking enough steps away from me that he had practically backed out of the room, I heard him begin to speak. I blinked, getting glimpses of the world, even though they churned my stomach. As ears curled out of my second head like flower petals, every sound was an assault on my senses. Winsor's words were being heard from four different places.

"Undead wretch foul and vile—"

I puked all over my feet from both of my mouths. The sensation of the puke drooling out of lips of my shoulder mouth, which was unable to face the ground like my first head, made me gag again.

"-responsible for causing this expulsion of bile—" Winsor continued, apparently drawing inspiration from my puking. "Be cast from this room with flame's powerful boom!"

Shooting from the embers in the fireplace with a loud noise, flame licked across the carpet. I swung around to Winsor, who screamed as he disappeared. I clasped my hands over one set of ears, but the small ones still heard. I opened my eyes, and I saw the flames fading. My eyes followed their trail, and out in the hall saw Winsor beating a small flickering flame on the knee of his robe down. Painful red burns were on his hands, but he had covered his face in time.

"Winsor it didn't work!" I said, my voices in unison.

"I noticed!" Winsor cried. Then he took a step back toward the room. The flames met him at the door, swaying like a cat protecting its territory. "I can't get back in. This spell has completely gone wrong! One moment."

"Ooooh..." I groaned.

"Uncouth flame burning bright, I banish you from my sight, along with all magic I have cast this hour to negate fallout from misused power."

Winsor fell down on one knee. With a sharp cutting sensation, my second set of eyes and ears disappeared, sucked back into my body. I hurled one more time for good measure, but as I had nothing left, it was just a series of dry retchings.

Winsor took a tentative step into the room. When the fire stayed in its place in the hearth, he hurried across the threshold and over to me.

"It wasn't an undead demon, I did that to you."

"What?" I mumbled, still dizzy from the experience. His thin hands felt hard against my shaking shoulders. Cold, too. I noticed the pain from my earlier beating creeping back into my body.

"I apologize my companion," Winsor said. "I panicked. Instead of merely undoing one spell, I cast another that implied you must have two necks, and so, two heads." Winsor shook his head. My mind flitted back to the soaked table cloth in the restaurant. Maybe this was something he did a lot.

I stumbled over to one of the beds and held my head in my hands. Although the double vision and hearing had gone the second my extra head did, I felt like the two headaches that had broiled had instead been consolidated into one.

I felt the bed bounce slightly as Winsor sat down next to me.

"That explains the dueling heads and your monstrous appearance..." He paused. "Though not why the second spell behaved so badly. It should have done nothing." Winsor stared toward a painting on the wall, not seeing it. "I guess it must be something to do with me being frightened. I wasn't focused."

"Me stumbling around with two heads a bit distracting?" I asked. Winsor giggled.

"A bit." His eyes were round with apology. "Are you well now, Azark? I genuinely did not mean to harm you."

"Better. Need a few more minutes. And, if you could heal my injuries again..." I lowered my hand as my wrist relapsed to its snapped state.

Winsor healed me again, his hands colder still on my face. Then he wiped my face with a handkerchief.

"You're repellent, you know. I never knew Assistants could be so untidy." He tossed the handkerchief into the fireplace, and it ignited, consuming the cloth and bits of puke alike.

He was quiet while he waited afterwards. He twisted the end of one of his mittens as he stared into the fireplace, now roaring healthily. It had minutes before been only mysterious embers, left by some unknown former occupant.

(( Thank you for all of the new comments and reads! I really hope you're enjoying Winsor and Azark's adventure. Part two of this chapter next week. ))