by Deva Fagan
Bracing herself against the bulk of her enormous nose, Moppe finally managed to free her lips and speak. Or rather, curse.
Her eyes rolled to the side, finding me. “You!” she snarled.
“I—I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” I stammered, wanting to look away but unable to tear my gaze from the nasal horror.
“Just tell me how to undo it!” Her cheeks were crimson. She dragged in a long, soggy gulp of air, now collapsed to the floor by the weight of her enormous nose. “Please.”
“Nose. Shrink,” I told her, my voice hoarse.
Moppe repeated it. Instantly, her nose began to contract. By the time it had returned to bread-loaf size she was able to stand again, supporting her nose with both hands as it shrank to the size of a grapefruit, a lemon, then finally back to normal.
She pressed one hand to her face for a long moment. Her entire body was trembling. So was mine. Everything had gone horribly wrong.
Master Betrys marched toward us, sending the few remaining onlookers scattering with the sharp sweep of her long robes. There was a stormy darkness in her eyes. “I thought I made myself clear last night.” Both of us started to speak, but she cut us off with a raised hand. “No. It’s obvious to me now who deserves to remain as my apprentice.”
Moppe and I both fell utterly silent, waiting.
Betrys looked us both over, considering. I quivered, every nerve bent toward her next words, desperate to hear my own name.
Finally she spoke, cool and clipped and inexorable. “Neither of you.”
7
WE’RE LEAVING,” SAID BETRYS. “Now.” Then she swept away, heading for the nearest doors.
“You—you’re taking us back home?” I asked, a tiny ember of hope flaring.
“I am taking you back to my house,” she answered, not looking back. “To pack your things. You can return to your own homes tomorrow morning.”
Surely I hadn’t heard that. This couldn’t be happening.
But Moppe’s expression told me I had not misheard. Master Betrys had expelled us both. A dull beat throbbed in my skull. I wanted to throw up. It didn’t matter what I did now. I’d tried to follow Mother’s orders, to save my magic, to save my dreams, and in the end I’d lost it all. And what would happen if the Liberation found the crown? They would use it against Regia Terra and start a war that would only cost more lives. Betrys might even be named a traitor. My entire world would be flung into chaos. More than just my magical studies were at stake.
“You’re going to regret this,” Moppe hissed, her voice low and venomous as we trotted after Betrys. “Just you wait.”
I already regretted it. I felt small and loathsome, as if someone had cast a shrinking spell on my soul. And all that bitterness wanted to burst out of me.
“Oh?” I bit back. “What are you going to do? You can’t even cast a spell without my help.”
My eyes stung, and I scrubbed at them, hastening to keep up with Master Betrys’s long strides. We exited onto a terrace overlooking a garden. Braziers burned along the crushed-shell walkways that ran between tall hedges out to the street. The lights swam in my blurry eyes.
I was so lost in my own misery, I didn’t even notice the man who stepped out of the shrubbery until I nearly trod on his shiny, silver-buckled shoes.
He was an older man, with bronze skin, graying hair, and the smile of a grandfather about to chastise his favorite grandchild. He looked vaguely familiar, which probably meant I had met him once at one of Mother’s parties.
“Master Betrys,” he crooned, “I’m so glad I caught you before you left.”
I glanced at Betrys, catching the pinched lines around her mouth.
“Councillor Pharon,” said Betrys, dipping her head.
I frowned at the man. That was why he was familiar. He was on the Council of Seven, along with my mother and five others who administered the provincial government of Medasia. I’d heard my mother call him a rudderless ship, because his votes were so unpredictable, never holding to either loyalist or Liberationist sympathies.
“I’m sorry,” Betrys went on, “but it has been a very trying evening. I really must be going.” She started forward again, but Pharon blocked her path.
Tall hedges walled us in, but a small alcove opened to one side, containing a sundial surrounded by banks of roses. Pharon must have been lurking there, waiting for us.
“Please, Julien,” said Pharon, his voice lowering, now husky and intense. “You know what’s at stake. You can’t hide in your study and expect this to all go away. We need to find a peaceful solution, before it’s too late. If you know where the crown is, you must tell us.”
Betrys merely crossed her arms and stared back at Pharon. “I’ve already told the council I don’t have access to the crown. No one does. And I see little chance of that changing anytime soon,” she added, with a sharp look toward Moppe and me. I cringed.
“Please let me be on my way, Councillor,” said Betrys. “I have nothing more to say to you or any of the others.”
“We can’t wait, Julien,” Pharon protested. “Someone is spreading rumors that you’re in league with the Liberation. And the new imperial envoy wants to—”
Pharon’s words cut off in a gasp, as the hedge beside us suddenly shuddered. With a snap and crackle of breaking branches, a figure pushed through the leaves.
He stood nearly seven feet tall and appeared to be wearing old-fashioned armor, like the soldiers in the frescoes of Meda’s first landing. There was something strange about his skin. It was unnaturally pale, like marble. No, it truly was marble. The creature was a moving statue! Bumpy ridges—barnacles?—crusted his shoulders and arms. Strips of dark green hung from his head. I wrinkled my nose, catching a strong fishy stench.
The pale, stony face cast about. “Is it part of the gala exhibition?” I asked uncertainly, as its blank, unseeing eyes skimmed over us.
With a grinding of stone, the warrior lifted massive marble arms and began to advance toward us, lips wide in a soundless bellow.
“I don’t think so, girls,” said Betrys, already whipping a scarf from her waist and snapping it out at the statue. The length of gold silk coiled around the thing’s legs, binding them together. It held, just barely, sending the creature tumbling to the ground.
Then Betrys was shoving Moppe and me into the alcove, muttering words in magespeak too fast for me to recognize beyond our names and the word protect. “Stay down, girls!” she ordered. “Don’t come out until it’s safe.”
With that, two more scarves flew from her hands to wrap around each of us. I fought back instinctively, batting at the gauzy stuff. It did no good. The muffling bands of silk swathed my arms, my mouth, even my eyes. Only the barest slit was left for me to squint through. By covering us so completely, Betrys had protected us from all harm. But unfortunately it also meant I could barely move, save for a sort of ungainly hopping. A squint to my side showed me Moppe in a similar predicament.
Meanwhile, the statue had already clambered back to its feet. With a silent roar, it whipped one massive marble hand at Pharon, catching him by the throat. He gave a horrible, strangled scream as the creature lifted him up into the air.
Then the scream stopped. Cut off, like a slammed door. His body went stiff. The statue tossed him aside, and Pharon hit the ground with a loud thunk.
I stared in horror at the councillor. His arms remained contorted in the act of freeing himself. His legs had frozen mid-kick. And his bronze skin had turned a sickly, pale gray. I’d never seen magic like this before, but I’d read chilling accounts of such a spell.
He’d been petrified.
Until that point, I’d been more frustrated than afraid. Master Betrys could handle anything. She was the best wizard on the island. But this wasn’t ordinary magic. Petrify was a solitaire, a word in magespeak that had no counterword. Solitaires were forbidden to all but the highest-ranked wizards of the Schola Magica because they could never be undone.
Pharon wa
sn’t truly dead, but he would never walk, breathe, speak, or feel anything, ever again. And Master Betrys could be next. We could be next. With that petrify spell bound to its stone fingers, the statue only needed to touch our flesh to turn us to stone forever.
Helpless in horror, I watched the statue swipe at Betrys. She zoomed into the air, out of its reach, muttering a spell. The statue sank abruptly into the earth, the ground under its feet transfigured into mud.
But it wasn’t enough. Stone fingers clung to the solid rim of the ground; within moments, it would be free.
In the brief lull, Master Betrys called out another, longer phrase in magespeak, including the word deanimate. The statue froze. I started to sigh in relief. Then a sparkling glimmer raced over its body and it was free again.
The wizard who’d created the creature had given it a counterspell. Master Betrys jumped back, crashing into one of the hedges as the statue made another grab for her, snagging the sleeve of her coat. It was going to petrify her! I gave a gargle of outrage and did the only thing I could think to do: I hopped out from the alcove and threw myself at the statue’s knees.
The protection spell did its job, encasing me in a hard shell of magical power. The force of the impact rattled my teeth, nothing more. Above me, stone arms pinwheeled as the statue struggled in vain to stay upright. With a great crash it fell to the ground.
Master Betrys knelt beside me. “My thanks,” she said. “But you need to leave this to me.” She squeezed my shoulder, murmuring a counterspell I didn’t recognize.
The statue regained its feet. It cocked its carved head from side to side, as if searching for something. Me, I realized a heartbeat later. The protections Master Betrys had put on the scarves must be shielding me from the statue’s sight. But it knew I was here.
It raked one great stone hand along the ground, barely missing my toes. I tried to roll out of the way, but the next swipe caught one end of the scarf that enveloped me. The silk muffled my scream. I braced myself, certain I was about to be petrified.
“Leave her be!” cried Master Betrys. “Your business is with me.” She called out a few quick, sharp words in magespeak.
Suddenly I was flying. Silk tore, and a faint spark of magic fizzed along my arm.
A jolt of fear clutched my chest as I slammed down into the ground, but whatever the enchantment was, Master Betrys’s counterspell had thwarted it. I was lucky it hadn’t been petrify, or things might have ended very differently. Instead I merely rolled to a stop beneath the hedges, unable to do anything but watch as the battle played out its final scene.
As the statue advanced upon her, Master Betrys stood cool and defiant. Calmly, carefully, she intoned a final spell. I couldn’t make out the last word, but whatever it was, it must have been terrible. It tore out of her, as if she were spitting a sword at the creature, leaving her staggering with whatever great power she’d invoked.
The statue shattered in a cloud of dust.
A patter of grit fell to the trampled earth. Nothing bigger than a single pea was left. A long, ragged gasp filled the sudden stillness as Betrys sighed.
Then came the shouts and thudding boots. A dozen soldiers in gold coats, muskets and sabers at the ready, converged on the scene. Two of them leaped at Master Betrys, seizing her arms.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I’ve done no wrong. Release me!”
A soldier in a tricorn hat with a single gold star—marking her as a captain—spoke. “Master Julien Betrys, in the name of the emperor I hereby place you under arrest for this assault on the honorable Councillor Pharon, and for suspected involvement in the despicable and traitorous rebellion against lawful imperial rule. You will be taken into custody, questioned, and then held until proof of innocence or guilt for these transgressions is determined.”
I heard a muffled yelp and turned to see another shrouded, wormlike figure beside me. Moppe. She tried to hop forward, only to stumble and crash sideways into the shrubbery.
None of the soldiers noticed. But Master Betrys’s eyes went to us, sudden and sharp. “Prove me wrong. All our fates depend on the crown. But it will take both knowledge and power to succeed. Turnip—”
“Gag her!” snapped the captain. One of the goldcoats dove at Master Betrys, stuffing a cloth into her mouth before she could finish the incantation.
“Make certain she’s secure,” ordered the captain. “Triple-check that gag every five minutes. We can’t risk her escaping.”
I twisted and writhed, but the silk binding my arms and feet held tight. Master Betrys had enchanted the scarves to protect us. To keep us invisible.
Now that meant we were powerless to interfere.
Guests from the party had begun to drift over, forming a babbling crowd. Someone arrived with a wheelbarrow, into which several of the soldiers began to load the petrified Councillor Pharon. There were gasps and sobs and cries of fear from the onlookers, until one of the men cast his greatcoat over the stone body.
I didn’t see my mother among the crowd. Only strangers, all of them staring at Master Betrys as she stood silent and stiff-backed between her captors.
“Everything is under control,” said the captain, her voice smooth and sure. “Please return to your party and know that the Imperial Guard is here to ensure safety and order.”
A jumble of shouted questions met this proclamation. The captain nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid a terrible injustice has occurred. It appears Master Julien Betrys is a traitor and has turned her magic against a loyal citizen in service to her despicable cause.”
I opened my mouth, trying to scream the truth at her. Master Betrys wanted nothing to do with any of this! She was brilliant and absolutely devoted to her art. She loved magic. She would never use it to do evil. But the muffling silk scarf ate my words, turning them into barely a whisper. There was nothing I could do. Fury and frustration roiled my gut as I wriggled myself upright.
The captain gestured to her soldiers, and they began to drag Master Betrys away toward the front gates. She paused to confront the crowd. “You may trust that the guard will see that this matter is fully investigated. If anyone has information regarding the activities of Julien Betrys, please report it. We also have reason to suspect two others are likely involved.”
Two others? The sick feeling in my stomach turned into a heavy weight. Oh no. Surely she didn’t mean—
“Betrys’s apprentices, Moppe Cler and Antonia Durant, are wanted on suspicion of treason.”
8
ALL I COULD THINK OF was getting as far away from the garden as possible. That was something of a challenge, as I was still swathed in magical silk and unable to do more than hop. I glanced toward Moppe and found she’d managed to regain her footing as well. Her wide eyes met mine, reflecting fear and desperation. It made me feel a little better. At least I wasn’t the only one who was absolutely terrified.
The scarves, infuriating as they were, were our only hope. Right now, we needed to be invisible if we were going to escape. I jerked my chin toward the twisted iron gates that led from Lord Buccanyl’s garden out onto the street, hoping Moppe would understand.
She started hopping toward the gates. I followed. A few agonizing moments later and we were in the streets, mincing across bumpy cobblestones. I spotted an alley across the way, tucked between a tea shop and a bookseller, and made for it.
Once out of sight of the garden, I sagged against the wall, my breath rasping hot and quick through the silk that still swaddled my face. It smelled faintly of carnations, Master Betrys’s favorite perfume oil.
Moppe tottered into the alley a moment later, wheezing. Out in the street, the clatter of boots and carriages rattled past. Probably the guard, taking Master Betrys away to the courthouse prison.
The thought jabbed a hot needle through my chest. I was alone. I didn’t even have a grimoire. All I had was my magic, and Master Betrys’s last words. Prove me wrong. All our fates depend on the crown. But it will take both knowledge and pow
er to succeed. Turnip.
I must have misheard that last word. Maybe there was another bit of magespeak that sounded like the word for turnip but actually meant freedom or escape or Toss all these soldiers into a heap over there while I run away.
I would have to figure it out later. Right now, I needed to get free of the scarf. A simple deanimate would probably work. The only problem was that I had a wad of silk muffling my mouth.
I tried anyway, holding the word carefully in my mind as I spoke. A muffled sputter came out. Nothing else happened, except that Moppe stopped her own struggles for a brief moment to stare at me.
There were rare mages who could cast spells silently, simply by thinking the words, but obviously I wasn’t one of them. I tried again, twisting my head to free my lips a fraction more. Thankfully the scuffle had loosened it just enough.
“Scarf. Deanimate.”
The scarf fell away so suddenly I nearly toppled to the ground, no longer gripped by the silk embrace.
Across the alley, Moppe stood straighter. Her black curls had fallen free from their braids, clouding about her head. The scarf still muffled her mouth, but above it her eyes were sharp and demanding and shadowed with fear. She mumbled something that sounded like a plea for help. Or possibly a curse.
There had been times in the past week when I’d wished I’d never met the girl. How different might this have all turned out, if not for that fateful night in the kitchen with the dancing turnips? Our rivalry had cost me tears and shame and despair. But we’d also managed some triumphs. Together, we’d bested the voices of the Cave of Echoes. Without her, I might still be stuck in the carpet in Master Betrys’s study. Moppe was part of this now, and I wasn’t going to abandon her.
“Scarf. Deanimate.”
The blue silk slipped down to puddle at Moppe’s feet. She glowered at me. “Took you long enough.”
She turned and started off down the alley, away from the main street.
