by Sara Raasch
She also took Simon’s head with her.
Ceridwen crawled to the doors at the back of the wagon and pressed on them. Sure enough, they held, so she fumbled around the edges for a weak point in the frame, or a splinter of wood she could pry free to replace the weapons they had been stripped of. She found nothing.
But the blankets and pillows—they could be tied together into something like rope, which could be used to choke unsuspecting soldiers when they opened the wagon doors. That would no doubt happen in the palace complex, where Raelyn would have many more than just five soldiers waiting to subdue her prisoners. Ceridwen could use one soldier as a hostage, keeping the satin rope tight around his windpipe until she and Lekan scrambled free.
But Raelyn still had control of the city. She was filled with Angra’s dark magic.
And she intended to murder Jesse and his children.
Ceridwen grabbed the nearest blanket and started tearing. Lekan shifted to lean more completely against the wall, his gaze hard on the ceiling in an effort to ignore his pain. He was too injured to be of any use in a fight. Ceridwen needed to get him to safety, then come back, and—what? Take down the entire Ventrallan army on her own? Surely someone in Rintiero was still loyal to Jesse and would help her save him and his children. She would have to find them—or Meira. Meira would help her.
Unless Raelyn had already killed her. The entire city could have bowed to Raelyn’s coup, and Jesse and his children could be dead, and every last trace of hope could have been snuffed out while Ceridwen sat helpless in a wagon.
Her hands stilled. The emptiness inside her whispered that she shouldn’t care so much what Raelyn did to Jesse. She had been pretending for four years that she didn’t care what Raelyn did to him—why should she start now?
But every other part of her screamed in protest. This wasn’t at all like it had been for those four years. This wasn’t just ignoring the fact that Raelyn would sleep with Jesse in the same bed in which Ceridwen herself had slept with him—this was ignoring the fact that Raelyn would kill him. And not just him, but his children, and Ceridwen didn’t care what had recently happened between herself and Jesse—she would not let his children die. Part of what had always made it so difficult to leave him was how much he loved his children. A man, a king, who crawled on the floor of his daughter’s bedroom just to make her squeal with laughter . . .
Ceridwen would free Jesse and his children. That would be the first step in this war—free the Ventrallan king. Find the Winterian queen. Regroup against Angra, and make him pay for daring to claim Summer—and for letting Raelyn kill Simon.
She could do that.
“Halt!”
Ceridwen stiffened, her eyes flicking to the wagon door as the entire structure rolled to a stop. She flung herself at the one narrow crack in the patched-up window, soaking up what information she could before she jerked back in case another stray blade poked through. They weren’t at the palace yet, but rather still in the city, surrounded by Rintiero’s multicolored buildings, the magentas and olives mostly coated in shadow now.
Lekan frowned at Ceridwen. Why had they stopped?
They both stayed silent. Ceridwen shifted into a crouch, the quilt-braid taut between both of her wrists.
A horse whinnied. “We wish to purchase the contents of this wagon,” a voice said, and Ceridwen strained to place it. Not someone she knew, and not one of the soldiers guarding them.
A man laughed. “Forget it—we have our orders.”
“Orders, yes. But do you have gold?”
Coins jingled. Lots of coins, from what Ceridwen could tell. Someone was buying them?
Her nostrils flared. Probably a perverted Ventrallan lord who had seen the Summerian wagon and thought what all people thought when they saw Summer’s flame—slaves for sale.
One of the soldiers whistled. Silence held for a beat.
“You can even keep the wagon,” the purchaser prodded. “Don’t want your queen finding out anything too soon.”
Your queen. This person wasn’t Ventrallan.
Finally the lead soldier snorted. The coins jingled again. “They’re all yours.”
Keys rattled. Footsteps moved toward the door. Ceridwen lifted higher, her body pivoted between Lekan and whoever might come at them. She slowed her breath, but her heart didn’t listen, thumping against her ribs as a key slid into the lock.
The door creaked open.
She slid forward, ready to lunge—
The buyer, a soldier, blinked at her in the hazy light from lampposts along the road. His skin shone black against the encroaching shadows, and behind him, a woman stood among a cluster of horses and more soldiers. Her dark hair was knotted into a bun just above the stiff collar of her gray wool gown. On her back, glinting in the twilight, sat an ax.
The fight drained out of Ceridwen on a rush of breath.
“Giselle?”
The queen of Yakim had bought them.
4
Meira
THE FIRST THOUGHT that hits me when I wake up is: I’m really tired of passing out because of magic.
A small fire clicks and pops to my left, its smoke permeating the air. I force my eyes open, thankful I’m met with the manageable darkness of night instead of an explosion of sunlight, my head thumping in time with the passing seconds.
“You can heal yourself, you know,” comes Rares’s voice.
I roll onto my side, my fingers digging into my forehead in an attempt to push away the last remnants of agony. A ring of trees surrounds our clearing, thick foliage hanging from drooping branches. Rares doesn’t look up from where he’s running a sharpening stone against one of the kitchen knives I stole.
“If I knew how to control my magic that well, I wouldn’t have followed you,” I snap. “What did you even do to me? How did you do it?”
Rares tests the blade with his thumb and sighs. “I’d expect ill-cared-for knives in a pauper’s kitchen, but the Ventrallan king’s? This is a disgrace.”
My glare deadens. He mutters that not even chickens deserve to be butchered by such blades.
Just as I draw in a breath to shout my questions at him, Rares looks up.
“Maybe I should teach you patience first.”
I pull onto my knees, fighting a wave of dizziness. I’m so close to the fire that sparks shoot off the crackling branches and prickle against my skin.
“How do you have magic?” I demand, my voice flat. “And how can you use it on me?”
Rares rests his elbows on his knees, fiddling with the knife as he considers me. “You’re worried I won’t explain myself, and that even if I do, I won’t tell you everything, and you’ll be left with incomplete information. You’re worried that you made a mistake in trusting me, but even more that you didn’t find me soon enough. Did I cover everything, dear heart?”
“I—”
“And while I could assure you that I’m nothing like your previous mentors, I’ll do you one better—now that we’re safe, or as safe as we can be, I’ll tell you everything, as I promised I would. Every detail, every reason, every flutter of a curtain that brought us to this moment. Well, not every curtain—some of them have been right gaudy.”
“But . . . why?”
“Tassels, mostly.”
“No,” I groan. “Why would you tell me everything?”
He blinks. “Why not?”
I sink to the ground. Just this easily? I’m used to arguments—me begging Sir to explain things or me begging Hannah to tell more.
Rares goes back to sharpening the knife, and after a breath, he starts, his voice detached, as if he doesn’t hear himself. “I know your mother told you how the Decay first ravaged the world. It was a byproduct of people using magic for evil acts, and Primoria’s monarchs countered it by collecting their citizens’ conduits through a violent purge.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking how he knows what Hannah told me, afraid that if I speak, he’ll realize how freely he’s giving
me this information.
“Thousands died,” he continues. “Even more were possessed by the Decay, lost to evil desires. It was a time of desperation—and that led the world’s monarchs to create the Royal Conduits in the hope that such large amounts of magic would cleanse the world of the Decay—and they did, for a time. One for each kingdom, four linked to female heirs, four to male heirs. Paisly was no different, except in our refusal to bow to our monarch’s power as easily as the rest of the world.
“We saw a violent cycle beginning. We saw magic still in use, great stores of it connected to eight people who could become power-hungry. How could they be trusted not to turn corrupt and reintroduce the Decay to our world? Magic had no place here—its price was too high. We formed a rebel group, the Order of the Lustrate, that stood against our queen.” Rares pauses, his gaze lifting from the knife to me. “And our rebellion was successful.”
“Paisly has no queen?” I barely hear the question fill the space between us.
“We have a regent who plays the part of queen whenever such a figure is needed, but Paisly has no queen—or Royal Conduit.
“The night of the rebellion, the Paislian queen refused to negotiate,” he continues. “She saw a threat against her kingdom, not the salvation we claimed. And in the battle, she sacrificed herself for her kingdom—moments after the Order broke her Royal Conduit, a shield.”
“What?” I pant, folding my arms around my torso as if holding on to myself is the only way to make sure his words are real, not some bedtime story told around campfires.
Rares’s dark eyes stay on mine. “No one realized what we had done until it was far too late. Everyone in Paisly, from the queen’s supporters to the Order’s members, became infused with magic. We all became conduits—just as your mother wanted for Winter.”
Shock makes me rock forward. “How do you know that?”
But Rares presses on. “The queen’s supporters were badly outnumbered after the rebellion. The Order came into power and has ruled Paisly ever since. And it is still our belief that magic has no place in this world—which is why we have kept our kingdom as secret as possible. Of course, occasional interactions with other kingdoms are unavoidable, but it is amazing what you can hide when no one knows what to look for. Especially when your kingdom is in a mountain range.” He winks. “Mighty easy to hide things in mountains.”
My mouth bobs open. What Hannah wanted to happen in Winter already happened in another kingdom—magic spread to every citizen when their conduit broke and their queen sacrificed herself. An entire land of people like me, who are themselves conduits for a magic they never wanted. No wonder Rares said Paisly is safe from Angra.
I lean forward excitedly. “Then you can stop Angra. Paisly can rally an army and have him defeated in a matter of—”
Rares’s look silences me. “Though every Paislian is a conduit, there weren’t many of us left after the war. Which is why we took the approach we did—our members have been waiting all over Primoria for a conduit-wielder whose goals aligned with our own. The Order has been building a defense—but Angra’s forces include the armies of at least three kingdoms now, and every soldier is infused with his magic. We could hold him off well enough in Paisly’s mountains, but we do not have the manpower to defeat his threat on our own. But we will help you—the Order may believe that magic has no place in Primoria, but our circumstances have forced us to become experts in it. We’ll help you learn how to control it so you can use it the way you plan to—to get the other keys to the chasm from Angra and destroy all magic.”
My heart nearly ricochets out of my chest. “You know about that, too?”
Rares smiles sadly, the fire reflecting yellow in his dark eyes. “Being part of the same magic allows for a mental connection. Touching another conduit intensifies the reaction—you’ve experienced that through skin-to-skin contact with other conduit-wielders. But truly strong conduits can access thoughts and memories without physical touch—until you trust your magic enough to use it all the time, to block such intrusions. You’re welcome, by the way, for getting Angra out of your mind. Someday you’ll have to hold him off on your own, but for now, he can’t access your thoughts.”
I touch my temple. “Wait—could Angra hear my thoughts before I knew he was alive?”
Rares nods once. “Yes.”
Nausea grips me and I reel forward, head in my hands. He could have heard anything—all my plans, all my feeble attempts to stop him. It had nothing to do with him touching me. He could have talked to me whenever he wanted. Who else could he do this to?
But I know. He did it to Theron—he could do this to anyone who isn’t actively protected from his Decay by pure conduit magic.
I glare at the flames before me. “So you fought him off for me. But how? I’m not Paislian, and Paisly’s magic should only affect your people.”
“Magic rules are different for human conduits,” Rares says. “I couldn’t affect a normal Winterian, but you are filled with the same magic that runs through my body. We’re linked, just as I’m sure you’ve discovered you’re connected to other conduit-bearers. Though the Royal Conduits were created to obey only certain bloodlines, the magic in them is, at its core, the same—and therefore, all conduit-wielders are connected. I’m sorry for the unconsciousness, but your endurance will increase. You were only out for about three hours, not even long enough for me to carry you out of Ventralli.”
I gawk at him. I wasted three hours sleeping.
Anything could have happened in that time. Mather and the Winterians could be safely out of Rintiero—or everything I fear could have come to pass. And not only that, but if we’re going to Paisly, the journey will take weeks—every moment we waste is another moment that Angra’s grip on the world tightens.
And I don’t even know his plan. I don’t know what he intends to do next, who he will kill, which kingdom he wants to destroy first. . . .
Metallic anxiety fills my throat, making it impossible to swallow, to breathe, to do anything but stare at Rares as the thudding ache across my skull resumes.
No time to waste.
“You said you’ll help me get the keys from him,” I force out. “With all the Order’s knowledge, you must have asked your magic how to destroy it too. And it told you the same thing it told me—by sacrificing a conduit and returning it to the chasm?”
Rares nods slowly.
“And you’re going to help me get the keys from Angra,” I repeat. “You’re going to help me destroy all magic. So—”
Memories flutter across my mind. The chasm and its electric, destructive fingers of magic that could only inhabit objects—when people attempted to let the magic touch them, it incinerated them as thoroughly as a lightning strike.
My anxiety is replaced by dread when Rares’s gaze doesn’t break from mine.
“There’s no other way to destroy magic,” I guess, the words coming from somewhere deep inside me, somewhere numb. “You’re going to help me die.”
That makes Rares drop the knife and sharpening stone. He swings onto his hands and knees and closes the distance between him and me, moving close enough that I can feel the severity radiating off him as surely as I can feel the heat from the fire beside us.
“For nearly two thousand years, my people have lived in a state of regret for what the Order did to Paisly,” he tells me. “By the time we could use our magic to figure out how to destroy it, we realized we would have had to get every Paislian to willingly throw themselves into the chasm. We are all Paisly’s conduit now. So we have been observing the world’s rulers in stealth through our link to their magic, hiding knowledge of the conduits’ true limits from any who would seek to abuse them, hoping that a ruler would come to the same conclusion we had—that magic is too dangerous. We had hoped, of course, that this monarch would only need to throw their object conduit into the chasm. But you are the first conduit-wielder in centuries who has decided that the negatives of magic outweigh any benefits. Not even yo
ur mother sought such a thing.”
I flinch at the mention of Hannah, expecting her voice in my head again—but no. She’s gone. And that feels far more liberating than it should.
Even when she tried to help me, she never actually helped me—she merely scrambled to fix her own mistakes, and as I look at Rares now, hoping to see some other emotion beyond his odd mix of remorse and eagerness, all I see is a door. The same door Hannah guided me toward, one leading away from a world of chaos and pain, control and destruction.
But unlike Hannah, Rares is willing to help me understand all this. He can help me control my magic so I have a better weapon when I face Angra to get the other two chasm keys. Rares and his people have had centuries to study their magic—maybe they can help me come to a place where my fear evaporates into resolve.
“Are you sure telling me all this is a good idea?” I ask. “You don’t want to hide it from me so I misinterpret something and make a mistake?”
Rares puts his hand on my shoulder, a steady pressure that makes me start. “You are not what you’ve done. Who you are right now, this moment, is who you choose to be.”
“Who I choose to be,” I echo. “I’m incapable of making the right choices lately.”
I left everyone I care about in Rintiero’s dungeon. I let three wasted hours pass. I—
Rares lifts his hand, coils his finger, and flicks me in the forehead.
I slap my palm over the stinging spot. “What—”
But he shakes the offending finger at me. “Consider this the first lesson as I teach you how to fully harness your magic: I will not stand for such talk about the person who will save us, especially from said person.”
“How is that a lesson?” I squeak.
“You’ll think twice before you try to be too hard on yourself next time. Now, since we’ve started our lessons, let’s move on to lesson two, shall we?”
I let my hand drop. “What about everyone back in Rintiero? Can we find out what happened to them first? What if Angra—”
