by Laurie McKay
“You’ve put enough spells on me.”
If she felt any guilt, she hid it. “I’ll fix that curse, prince.”
“So you’ve said. But so you haven’t done.”
Brynne twisted her hands together and looked away.
Mr. McDonald piled his papers into the back of a rusty sedan, then slid into the front seat. The engine started with a coughing sound. Caden reached for Sir Horace; so did Brynne. “He’s moving. Let’s go.”
They followed him to French Broad River Park. The river looked gray in the half-light of predawn. Paved paths wove around picnic tables and along the shore. Most of the trees remained summer green, but a few had leaves of yellow and red. The air was cool. Summer had finally surrendered to the chill of the Ashevillian autumn.
At Caden’s command, Sir Horace waited nearby in the woods. It would be hard to hide him without tree cover. Sir Horace would come if called, and he would wait if not. Then Caden and Brynne hid near the edge of the park. There was a road bridge there that stretched low and long across the water. Its cement pilings gave them cover, and they watched. There were two villains by the bank now.
The first, of course, was Mr. McDonald. His hair looked paper white in dawn’s light. His shoulders were slumped; his maps crumpled under his arm. Like Caden and Brynne, he’d been waiting awhile.
The second figure had just arrived. It was Ms. Jackson, the lunch witch. The moment she pulled her organic food van into the parking lot, the mission became more meaningful. More dangerous. More worthy of a future Elite Paladin. As always, she dressed in black with red bands tied around her arm. She grasped the cursed ladle in her right hand. In her left, she held a large witchy pot that looked a lot like the cafeteria spaghetti pot.
A car rumbled across the bridge. Loose dirt showered down. Caden glared up and brushed it from his shoulder. This Ashevillian bridge was utilitarian at best and was nothing like the bridges in his homeland, in the Greater Realm’s Winterlands. There—in Razzon—the bridges were monuments.
The most impressive, the Bridge of the Divide, stretched from one mountaintop to the next. The suspensions were carved to look like the wings of the imperial Winterbird. The expanse was painted in golds, silvers, and deep royal blue. It was higher than the clouds, and at full speed it took Sir Horace half a day to cross.
Lately, even small bridges reminded Caden that he was stranded in a strange land far from home. And hiding under bridges was completely undignified. Caden wasn’t a barter troll. He crossed his arms and whispered that to Brynne.
She wore a sleek black jacket, jeans, and delicate-looking boots. Her silvery eyes were a brighter version of the gray sky. “Of course you’re no troll,” Brynne whispered back. “If you were a barter troll, prince . . .” More dirt spilled down. “You’d be useful and force those cars to pay tolls. We could make spending money.”
This was his ally. A sorceress who would be happy with barter troll–type extortion. Caden motioned toward the bank. “At which point, the villains would catch us.”
“Better to fight a witch and a coward than die of boredom under a bridge,” she said, but she fidgeted like she couldn’t relax.
“Jasan said to observe and report,” Caden said.
“Jasan also said to let him and Manglor follow Ms. Jackson, not us,” Brynne said.
Ms. Jackson was no minion. She was high-level, powerful, and hard to track. Brynne motioned to the black-clad figure by the bank. “Yet here we are, and there Ms. Jackson is.”
“She wasn’t the one we followed here, so we’ve done as we were told. And we need to know what they are plotting.”
“Agreed,” Brynne said. “They’re waiting here for a reason.” She leaned her cheek against the column. “I’ve a bad feeling about this, prince.”
It was never a good sign when a spellcaster had a bad feeling.
Overhead, another car bumped over the bridge. Its headlights flashed across the mountainside, park, and river, then the car pulled around the park gate. It looked as if it were drenched in blood. A red Audi. The man inside was dressed in a matching crimson sweater. He pulled the car onto the grass and stopped.
Rath Dunn stepped out. He stretched as if to honor daybreak. Then he closed the door, petted the top of his Audi like it was a cherished pet, and walked toward the shore where Ms. Jackson and Mr. McDonald were waiting. Now Mr. McDonald clutched the large witchy pot.
Just as Caden and Brynne had been spying on Mr. McDonald, Jasan had been watching Rath Dunn. Yet Rath Dunn was here at the park. Jasan wasn’t.
In the quietest voice possible, Caden said, “Call Jasan.”
Brynne crouched down. She coddled her phone to her and tapped on it. It glowed a dim blue as she raised it to her ear. “He’s not answering,” Brynne said. Then she switched to the Common Tongue and left Jasan a whispered message.
Why wasn’t Jasan answering? What if Rath Dunn had harmed him or killed him? Jasan was strong, but Caden knew even strong people could be lost. He felt fear surge through him.
Brynne scooted closer to Caden. She held her phone near her chest. It glowed with a new call. She cupped it with her hand to hide the light. “It’s Jasan,” she said quietly, and Caden felt weak with relief. She tilted her head. “He’s on his way.” Brynne shrugged, then scrunched her face into a frown. “He says to stay hidden. It’s an order.”
Caden was just grateful Jasan was alive. “Very well.”
From the bank, Caden heard Ms. Jackson and Rath Dunn laugh. She carved symbols into the mud with her cursed ladle. Though she was evil, Caden admired her ability to adapt the cursed item to her benefit.
Rath Dunn stood near the water. His beard looked neatly trimmed, his bald head as if he’d waxed it. His sweater seemed too red for the gray of dawn. He clamped his hand on Mr. McDonald’s shoulder and grinned.
Mr. McDonald was as stiff as a locking battle chain, and his face turned as white as his hair. He stumbled away from Rath Dunn, filled Ms. Jackson’s witchy spaghetti pot with river water, then sat it on the bank.
Caden looked at Brynne as she watched the villains. The wind blew her short hair back in soft black waves. She narrowed her silvery eyes. “The grass is turning black,” she said.
Caden realized he was staring. And not at the villains. At Brynne. He felt his cheeks heat and quickly turned. A tree near the shore turned from healthy brown to hollow black. The green leaves on its branches scattered like ashes. The smell of rot filled the air. Ritual magic drained life and caused destruction.
In the quietest of voices, Brynne said, “The communication spell?”
Communication spells seemed fueled by the death of plant life. If they were about to witness one, the tiring night of following Mr. McDonald was about to become worthwhile. He and Brynne would witness any contact made with the other realm.
Caden tugged his coat tighter. Usually, it brought him comfort, but not even the enchanted wool could ebb the cold dread he felt. His second-born brother, Maden, allied with the villains. Likely, Maden was on the other end of this communication spell.
“Caden?” Brynne whispered, and nodded toward the bank.
This was no time to remember when Maden used to hoist Caden on his shoulders, nor of Maden showing Caden tricks for fighting enemies with greater physical strength. This was a chance to learn the enemy’s plan—even if Maden was part of it. Caden squared his shoulders and fumbled in his pocket for his sparkly cell phone. He needed to record these events. He’d prove to Jasan that he was capable.
The villains turned toward the water. Their voices were soft and indistinct. Caden couldn’t make out what they said. “We need to be closer,” he whispered to Brynne.
Brynne pulled a purple hair band from her pocket and used it to pull her hair away from her face. She set her jaw. “Agreed.”
They crept from the relative safety of the bridge, then scrambled to the area behind the public restrooms and peeked out. Caden could see the villains more clearly. And Rath Dunn carried his blood dag
ger. Caden was near enough to it for his arm to ache. The villains’ voices, however, remained muffled. They needed to be closer.
On the bank, the witchy spaghetti pot glowed red. It looked as hot as a Razzonian forge. Red was the color of fire dragons and angry spells; it was the color of magic fueled by hate.
Caden pointed to a picnic table. It wasn’t the best cover, but none of the villains knew that Caden and Brynne watched them. Rath Dunn, Ms. Jackson, and Mr. McDonald had no reason to peek under a picnic table. Brynne nodded. Caden grabbed her hand and they dashed for it.
Caden hopped between the bench and top so that he was beneath it. Brynne slid in beside him. He tapped the icon on his phone to record the voices.
Mr. McDonald stared at the ground while Ms. Jackson crouched beside the pot. Rath Dunn leaned over it. He spoke in the Greater Realm’s Common Tongue. “Today just after sunrise. Then three days after at dusk,” he said. “Don’t mess it up.”
Next Caden heard a voice that was not Rath Dunn’s, nor Ms. Jackson’s, nor Mr. McDonald’s. It was a faraway voice, and it rippled from the spaghetti pot like it was coming from a cell phone. “Everything will be ready on this side.” Maden. His voice sounded colder than Caden remembered. “Don’t you mess it up, villain.”
Maden didn’t seem to like Rath Dunn, but that changed nothing.
“I don’t mess up,” Rath Dunn growled. Then he kicked the red-hot pot into the river. It sizzled and steamed as it fell beneath the waters. The conversation was over.
“That was my best pot,” Ms. Jackson said.
“I allowed myself to be immersed in the moment.” Rath Dunn feigned contrition. “And now your pot is immersed in the river.” He chuckled as if amused with himself. “Soon I shall have a new one fashioned for you. Gilded with the armor of dead Razzonian royalty.”
His words seemed to do little to appease Ms. Jackson. “Don’t try to bribe me,” she said.
“Of course, of course,” Rath Dunn said. “My apologies.”
Mr. McDonald acted more frightened than ever. His gaze darted from Rath Dunn to Ms. Jackson. He stepped away, but as quick as a snow snake’s strike, Rath Dunn pulled Mr. McDonald back.
“We need you here. Remember?” Rath Dunn said.
“What for? I’ve done my part,” Mr. McDonald said. “I mapped each location as it matches up with its counterpart.” His voice shook. “I helped make the runes!”
“You’re an important part of this undertaking, Mr. McDonald. You’re needed.”
Brynne pinched Caden’s elbow.
It was no time for Brynne to pinch him. They were under an Ashevillian picnic table and in the presence of Ms. Jackson, the lunch witch and ritual magic master; Rath Dunn, the bringer of the Blood War; and Mr. McDonald, the cowardly reading teacher. Two of these three people wanted to make Caden a corpse. Caden and Brynne needed to be as silent as a prowling wind cat. Caden stifled an “Ow” and turned to glare at her.
She pointed to the sky and the rising sun. Soft golden rays stretched across the gray morning.
“So?” he mouthed.
She leaned close. She smelled of the damp earth and the morning breeze. In the quietest voice possible, she said, “Today, just after sunrise.”
The villains had contacted Maden, but they weren’t leaving. They’d no reason to stay around unless they planned to do more. Caden peeked between the bench and tabletop. Ms. Jackson pulled a vial from her pocket, one with glowing green liquid.
It was one Caden had seen once before while hiding beneath a desk. Much like bridges and picnic tables, desks weren’t dignified places to hide under. But such was fate’s disfavor that Caden found himself crouched under Ashevillian structures.
That vial was one of four that Rath Dunn had collected. Each contained an ingredient—the tears of an elf, magical locks, blood of a son, and dragon’s essence—and each was an ingredient for a four-part spell. If completed, it would blast a pathway back to the Greater Realm. The amount of life drained by a powerful barrier-breaking spell would be far greater than the autumn grass and the park trees. No doubt it would drain plant, animal, and human life. The consequence of such a spell would be the destruction of the city and its people.
Rath Dunn dragged Mr. McDonald to the edge of the water. Mr. McDonald’s eyes darted from side to side. Then they widened and locked under the picnic table, on Caden and Brynne beneath it.
Caden heard Brynne suck in a breath.
Mr. McDonald was a proven coward. He’d left Caden and his classmates to killer bees last year. Like all teachers in the middle school, he was a villain banished from the Greater Realm. But he had once claimed innocence. Hoping Mr. McDonald had some spark of nobility in his cowardly body, Caden held Mr. McDonald’s gaze. He made the message clear: don’t tell Rath Dunn and Ms. Jackson we’re here. Maybe Mr. McDonald would keep them secret. Maybe.
The picnic table started putting off heat. Lines etched into the wood began to glow. Runes. Around the park, symbols appeared everywhere—carved into the paved path, painted on the public restrooms, twisting around lampposts and trees.
It seemed Ms. Jackson had been busy. The sigils carved on the trees and painted on the paths and buildings must have taken meticulous work, and since Caden doubted Jasan or Manglor knew about these runes, Ms. Jackson had been sneaky enough to carve and paint them when no one spied on her. Truly, she was a witch—tricky, smart, and powerful. She stood beside the river and cackled with glee. The vial glowed green.
Oh no. Today wasn’t just a day of communication. They’d stumbled across something even more important than that. She had the vial. That meant something more, something worse. Today was the day Rath Dunn and Ms. Jackson meant to cast the first part of the spell. Caden glanced toward the road, then toward the forest. Where was Jasan?
Not here, but they couldn’t let the spell begin. “We have to stop her,” Caden said.
“I know,” Brynne said.
Time was short. Without the vial, she couldn’t cast the spell. They scooted from their hiding spot. “I’ll distract Rath Dunn,” Caden said. “You get the vial.”
Brynne dashed for Ms. Jackson, Caden toward Rath Dunn. Before either was even halfway, Ms. Jackson’s voice rose over the sounds of morning. “Rain fall, river rage, let the tears of elf begin the break, and join distant river and lake.” She dumped the vial.
The winds roared. The river’s waters started to foam. Rapids rammed the bank. Waves sprayed across the bridge.
Brynne’s purple hair band flew off and tumbled away with flying leaves. She skidded to a stop. Caden did the same.
Was the first part of the spell complete? To make things worse, Caden and Brynne were exposed now. Their enemies would see them if they so much as glanced their way. Caden detoured to Brynne and gripped her hand. Best they run and hide, and do so fast.
Brynne resisted. She creased her brow. “Ritual magic requires sacrifice, and she hasn’t sacrificed anything for the four-part spell, Caden. The plants were used for the communication spell, not this.”
They stood in the howling, unnatural wind and turned back toward the villains.
Rath Dunn grabbed Mr. McDonald by the neck and dragged him toward the angry river. Mr. McDonald fought against him, but he was too slow and too unpracticed to have any effect.
“Help!” Mr. McDonald screamed. “Help me!”
Rath Dunn followed Mr. McDonald’s line of sight to Caden and Brynne. When he saw them, he smiled. Brynne stepped closer to Caden. “Without a sacrifice, the spell won’t work,” she said.
That was when Rath Dunn, still smiling, tossed Mr. McDonald into the river.
Mr. McDonald screamed. All Caden could see was his white hair bobbing in the raging waters as the rapids swept him in the direction of the bridge.
“Save him!” Brynne yelled.
If Caden could catch him, he could reach for him and pull him to safety. He darted diagonally in the direction of the bank and the bridge. A true Elite Paladin never refused a call of aid
. Not even from a cowardly villain.
There was a flash of heat and light. Pyrokinesis magic—a type of sorcery that gave the caster mind power over fire. It was one of Brynne’s more powerful spells, and one of her least controlled.
Caden glanced back. Brynne stood on one side of a massive wall of fire. Rath Dunn and Ms. Jackson stood on the other. A bench in the flames melted. The fire grew on the raging winds. Only at the river, where the water extinguished it, did it cease. Rath Dunn dashed in that direction.
Mr. McDonald’s head was now underwater, but he reached his hand up above it. His fingers scrambled for branches and rocks. Brynne yelled. Ms. Jackson cackled. On the wind, Caden heard a mighty whinny. No doubt Sir Horace ran toward the sounds of battle.
Caden grabbed for Mr. McDonald’s hand. His fingers were slick with water and mud and it took all Caden’s strength to keep from being swept into the river along with his teacher. Caden pulled, and Mr. McDonald’s head popped above the water.
The current raged. It felt like Caden would be swept into it.
Mr. McDonald sucked in a breath. “Don’t let go! Don’t let go!”
The muscles in Caden’s arms burned. “I won’t!” he said, but neither he nor Mr. McDonald were a match for the river’s fury. Mr. McDonald’s hand began to slip. A massive wave washed over him. After the wave passed, Caden’s hand was empty. Mr. McDonald was nowhere in sight. The river had swept him away.
Someone grabbed on to Caden’s coat.
From near the firewall, Brynne screamed, “Caden!” She sounded too far away to be the one holding his coat. If not Brynne, who was behind him?
Rath Dunn snarled into his ear. “You can’t save anyone. Haven’t you learned that yet,” he said. “Not the scribe, not McDonald, not your family, not yourself.” Then he shoved Caden off the bank.
Caden dunked into the cold, raging river. He felt a twig rush by his cheek and scrape him. Water pushed up his nose and into his mouth. Now it was he who struggled in the rapids, and there was no one to save him.
Caden battled to keep his head above water. The waves smacked against his face. He swam with all his might, but the current was too strong, and his muscles quivered as he fought the rapids. The current tugged him down. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t break the surface.
