Rival Magic

by Deva Fagan

  I jogged after her. “Wait! Where are you going?”

  She halted, crossing her arms. “You heard what Master Betrys said. I need to find the crown.”

  “All by yourself?”

  “I’ve had enough of your so-called help. You made me the laughingstock of the gala. You got us both expelled.”

  The bitterness of her words sent a guilty flush to my cheeks. “I got you out of that scarf, too,” I said. “In case you forgot.”

  “You also turned yourself into a human lantern. In case you forgot.”

  I hadn’t. It was hard to forget, given the soft glow that was so clearly oozing from my skin now that we were deep in the darkness of the narrow alley. “But you don’t even know where to start looking!” I sputtered.

  She lifted her chin high. “Master Betrys told me where to look.”

  “What do you mean? All she said was turnip.”

  “Exactly.” She spun, marching away. There was no way she knew what she was doing. Turnip didn’t mean anything. Unless Moppe thought Master Betrys had hidden the most powerful magical artifact in Medasia at the bottom of a greengrocer’s root bin.

  I jogged after her. “The longer we stay on the run, the guiltier we look. We should turn ourselves in.”

  “And be executed for treason?” Moppe asked sourly.

  “They aren’t going to execute us.”

  “They shot two boys last month for writing something rude about the emperor on the wall of the customs house.”

  I sucked in a breath. Surely that couldn’t be true. There must be more to it. Probably it was just some wild rumor spun into sensationalism by the Liberationists.

  “We aren’t rebels, and neither is Master Betrys! It’s all a mistake. If we go to my mother, I’m sure she can sort it out.”

  Moppe snorted. “Right. Because she’s some high mucky-muck on the council? Maybe she’ll save her precious, perfect daughter, but she won’t care a toss about some mountain girl. And that’s fine with me. I’m going to save myself.” She jabbed her thumb at her chest as she spoke.

  Precious, perfect daughter? If Moppe knew what my mother really thought of me, she’d never stop laughing.

  Moppe quickened her steps, leaving me behind as she crossed out into a wider street, turning south, toward the shore. An evening fog had settled over Port Meda, furling out a thick, gray blanket over the cobblestones, cloaking the dark storefronts in veils of mist.

  I ground my teeth, watching her go. It was pure foolishness. And yet…

  Prove me wrong.

  Hope quivered in my chest. Did she mean prove her wrong to have expelled us? By finding the crown? By showing that I had the wisdom to ensure it wasn’t misused? There were greater and grander things at stake here than my magical future. Betrys’s very life hung in the balance. The safety of all Medasia. If there was even the smallest chance that I could do something about it, I had to try.

  My footsteps rang hollow in the mist as I hurried after Moppe.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you’re not lost?” I asked as I followed Moppe along the rocky trail south of Port Meda. We’d left the city hours ago. The sky was starting to look suspiciously silvery along the east, and every bone in my body seemed to have transfigured itself into lead, dragging me down with an overwhelming weariness.

  “I didn’t ask you to come,” snarled Moppe.

  “No. Master Betrys did.”

  The girl spun around, confronting me with crossed arms. “She did not.”

  “She said it would take both knowledge and power to succeed. You don’t need to do this by yourself. You can’t. You’re not ready.”

  “I know.” The words wrenched out of her, deep and fierce and edged with unhappiness. “But I have to.”

  “Why?” I repeated. “You’re just a girl. No one said you have to save Medasia all by yourself.”

  Moppe stared at me. A wistful look softened her sharp-cut features. I pressed my advantage. “We just need to find the crown and show the council that we have it and it’s safe,” I said. “And then they’ll let Master Betrys go. The adults will figure out what to do with it and we can go back to being apprentices. She’ll take us back, if we prove her wrong. Maybe… maybe she’ll even recommend us to the Schola Magica.”

  And like that, the hopeful expression vanished. “That’s all this is to you? A way to get to that frilly-necked school?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I called, but she was already marching onward, up the slope to an open ridge crowned by a stand of young lemon trees.

  Leaning against one of them, she paused to tug something from the pocket of her skirt. It was the cherry cake. The one she had been trying to enchant when I gave her the wrong spell. The confection was slightly squashed and sticky with marzipan, but still looked absolutely delicious. Especially after an hour or more of tromping along a dark, rocky trail having just been accused of treason. My stomach rumbled.

  Moppe arched an amused brow at me. “Hungry?” she asked, before taking an enormous bite from the cake. She chewed lustily and loudly.

  “No,” I said, wrapping my arms around my stomach.

  “Too bad you didn’t tell me how to actually enlarge it,” she said, around another bite of jewel-red cherries and flaky crust. “There might be enough to share.”

  “Cake. Enlarge,” I said.

  The pastry shivered, growing an inch or two larger. Moppe smirked. “Thanks. It’s really good.” She took another bite, making no move to share.

  I swallowed as my stomach gave another rumble. I was in serious danger of drooling. “Well? Are you just going to stand there and eat cake?”

  “Yes,” she said, waggling the half-eaten pastry at me. “I’m going to stand here and eat cake until you go away. Why should I let you tag along? If you think you’re going to swoop in and steal my—”

  “What was that?” I twisted left and right, searching the hillside. “Did you hear something?”

  Moppe gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, and now you’re trying to scare me into letting you come with me? Do you really think that’s going to work?”

  But it wasn’t a trick. There had been something, a scuttling and scraping higher on the hill. Maybe it was only a goat, out for a morning stroll, kicking loose a bit of the rubble cluttering the hillside. The odd predawn light turned the world into a gray ghost land, lumpy with boulders, haunted by twisted olive trees. We had wandered inland, away from the coast, but the air still held the salty tang of the sea. I was probably panicking for no reason.

  Except… “Was that boulder there a moment ago?” I asked, pointing to a craggy lump hunched in the shadow of the hillside above.

  “Which boulder?” Moppe asked.

  “The one that’s MOVING!” I shrieked, as the stone shifted, uncoiling abruptly into a lean, feline form.

  “Another statue!” cried Moppe. “Did it follow us?”

  It definitely looked like it had been sent by the same unknown wizard. Like the warrior from the garden, the stone lion was carved from fine marble, with a greenish bloom and a crust of barnacles, as if it had emerged from under the sea. Fine cracks marred the surface as well; it was old. Part of one ear had broken off. Somehow that only made it look fiercer.

  It hunched down, giving a low rumble like grating boulders as its blank eyes fixed on us. Those terrible marble jaws opened, showing a mouthful of carved teeth. If it didn’t petrify us first, the creature could clearly tear us to bits.

  Unless I stopped it.

  “Lion. Rise.”

  A glimmer of light slid over the stone lion, almost too quick to follow. A sharp tingle ran through me, as if I’d touched metal on a dry, cold day. The lion stayed firmly planted on the rocky earth.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Moppe said.

  “Wait!” I cried, but she was already repeating my words.

  Another flare of light fizzed across the lion’s haunches, brighter this time, before sparking back at Moppe. She yelped. “What was that?”
/>
  There was no time to answer. The lion leapt. “Move!” I shouted, diving out of the way. Moppe tumbled after me onto a patch of wild thyme as the lion smashed into the lemon tree where we’d been standing a moment before.

  “It’s counterspelled,” I told her, as we staggered back to our feet. “It turns magical energy back against the caster. You saw Master Betrys fighting the statue in the garden. She only beat it because she used a solitaire.” At least, that was what I assumed that final, perilous spell had been.

  “A what?”

  “A spell with no known counterspell. Like the spell that petrified Councillor Pharon. Only the most highly trained wizards are ever taught solitaires.”

  “Do you know any?” Moppe asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “Run!” I shouted, as the lion bounded toward us.

  We tore along the trail, winding down the other side of the ridge into a narrow gorge, then up a steep twist of dusty stones onto a grassy hillside dotted with small white flowers. It might have been beautiful, if it weren’t for the rampaging stone lion charging after us.

  “Will it ever stop?” huffed Moppe.

  “No. And it won’t get tired. We need to do something,” I panted. “We can’t attack it directly. We need to use something else.”

  “Great,” Moppe said, holding up a handful of smashed marzipan and cherries. “All I’ve got is a cake.”

  “That’s it!” I snatched the pastry from her hand.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the lion was only a few yards behind us. Jaws wide, it boomed a roar. This was my chance!

  I flung the cake straight into the lion’s mouth. “Moppe!” I called. “Enlarge!”

  She gave me one incredulous look, before understanding flooded her face.

  “Cake,” she said, in magespeak. “Enlarge.”

  Instantly the cake began to swell. The lion staggered to a halt, jaw working, but it was too late. Its fierce jaws were sunk deep in the marzipan. It shook its stone head from side to side, trying to dislodge what was now an enormous lump of cherries and pastry. Larger and larger the cake grew, forcing the lion’s jaws apart.

  And then…

  Crack!

  The statue’s head splintered, the ancient battered stone unable to resist the might of the pastry. The creature froze abruptly, one paw slashing in an act of final, headless defiance.

  “It worked!” Moppe crowed, swatting me on the shoulder. “You’re a real corker!”

  I grinned, flushed with success and pleased to have someone to share it with. Master Betrys had complimented me before, but she’d never swatted my shoulder and called me a corker.

  “It wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t cast the spell,” I admitted. “Look at that. That’s… amazing.”

  The cake was still growing. In fact, it had already started to bump up against my toes. I took a few steps back, just to be safe. There was plenty to eat, but between the churning fear and the exploding lion statue, my hunger had vanished, at least for now.

  Moppe smiled. She had a nice smile when she wasn’t being a complete pain. It made a dimple in her left cheek.

  But the smile didn’t last long. She frowned at the ruin of the statue, letting out a long sigh. “I suppose there’s going to be more of that, isn’t there?”

  I nodded. “Whoever it is, they’re a powerful wizard. As powerful as Master Betrys. And they want the crown. Probably a Liberationist.”

  Moppe tensed. “Why do you think that?”

  I gestured to the broken lion. “That’s an old Medasian statue, from the looks of it. Probably from the ruins of one of the old temples. Besides, who else would it be?”

  Moppe dug the toe of one shoe into the dirt. “Right. Well, I guess then… it makes sense for us to… work together. For a little while. Just to be safe.”

  “Er. Right,” I said. “Good. So.” I fumbled in the awkward space between rivalry and alliance. Everything had changed. Maybe that meant that things between Moppe and me could change, too. A part of me desperately hoped so. I didn’t want to face this alone. “Where are we going? And what does any of this have to do with turnips?”

  In answer, Moppe spun on her heel, leading me onward up the grassy slope. “The Furtive told us that the key was a place we needed to go. And Master Betrys was trying to tell us something about turnips. So, look there,” she said, pointing through the predawn haze to the outline of the mountain above.

  I cocked my head, staring at the peak. The mountain was familiar: oddly round, with a sudden sharp summit. It was the same peak from Florian’s stories.

  “What does it remind you of?” she asked.

  “A fat carrot,” I said, “Or… oh.”

  “Its proper name is Mount Zalon,” said Moppe. “But most folks call it Mount Turnip.”

  9

  THE LEGENDS SAY it’s where Queen Meda came after she was exiled from the mainland, to seek guidance from the old powers,” Moppe said, as she led the way up the slopes of Mount Turnip.

  The night was slipping away, the eastern sky warming behind the domed peak, showing streaks of gold and pink. Around us, birds chirruped in the dew-streaked brush. It was beautiful, but I still didn’t see what any of it had to do with finding the lost crown.

  “How do you know all that?” I asked. “My brother used to tell me stories, but those were just fairy tales. My history tutor certainly never said anything about any magic turnip mountain.”

  Moppe huffed. “Probably didn’t say much about our real history at all, did they? Just some nonsense about a bunch of stuffed shirts on the other side of the ocean who think we should scrape and bow to them because of some promise Meda supposedly made centuries ago.”

  “It’s not nonsense,” I protested. “By the terms Meda negotiated when she established Medasia, the island would revert to imperial rule if her bloodline ever failed. And it did!”

  “You sound like one of them,” said Moppe. “As if we should be happy to be under the thumb of some gold-plated nincompoop who only cares about his purple robes.”

  “I’m just as Medasian as you are!” I protested. I’d seen my own family tree, inscribed on a thick sheaf of parchment kept safe in Mother’s study. Our only recent connection to the mainland was my maternal grandmother, who came to Medasia to negotiate a trade deal with the local dyehouses and ended up marrying the dye merchant’s son. My father had been from the south of the island, though he’d died before I was even born.

  Moppe didn’t look convinced.

  “Besides, we need Regia Terra,” I went on. “We wouldn’t last a year on our own without the Imperial Navy to drive off pirates.” I’d heard my mother say so at least a dozen times.

  “Queen Meda didn’t need cannons and frigates,” said Moppe darkly. “She had the Black Drake. The drake kept Medasia safe for centuries.”

  “Right,” I said. “Until King Goros died without an heir and it went wild and tore down the old palace and half of Port Meda.”

  “Until he was murdered, you mean. Along with his daughters.”

  “Murdered?” I shook my head. “No, they died of the spotted fever.”

  “Is that what your tutor told you? And where did they learn their history?”

  “At the Imperial Collegium,” I admitted. Mother had insisted on a “proper Regian education” for both Florian and myself. “Anyway,” I said, “who told you they were murdered?”

  “My grandmother,” said Moppe. “She knows all the old stories. She grew up in these mountains. If anyone knows where to look for the lost crown, it’s her. We’re nearly there now,” she added, quickening her steps.

  I peered doubtfully through the brush ahead. “Are you sure she won’t mind us just bursting in like this?”

  “Of course not. Just be careful of Uncle Goat. He’s the grouchy one.”

  “What?” I must have misheard. “Uncle Goat?”

  But Moppe was already yards ahead of me, heading for
a small cottage perched along the slope of the mountainside. Bright pink bougainvillea spilled over the whitewashed walls, almost enveloping the tiny house. The door and shutters were vivid blue, the stoop freshly swept and decorated with pots of herbs. More greenery rioted in the garden nearby: a frenzy of dill and thyme and silvery-speared artichokes.

  A grizzled black goat stood just outside the door, blinking uncanny yellow eyes as it watched us approach. It looked harmless, but after Moppe’s warning I was careful to edge around the far side of the path, keeping well away from the creature as it casually munched mouthfuls of greens.

  Suddenly the blue door swung open. Two little girls tumbled out, calling Moppe’s name. One of them looked about nine, the other barely six. Both had long manes of curly black hair and sun-bronzed skin, just like Moppe.

  “You’re here! Aya said you weren’t coming to visit until the new moon,” said the younger girl, flinging herself into Moppe’s arms. “Did you bring me sweets? You said you’d bring back sweets!”

  “Don’t be a greedy gut, Delia,” said the older girl. She eyed Moppe suspiciously. “What happened to your job? Did they sack you?”

  “No, they didn’t sack me, Lyssa,” said Moppe, ruffling the girl’s hair. “These are my sisters,” she told me. “And this is Antonia. She’s my…” She trailed off, frowning at me, as if I were a tomato popping up in her cabbage patch.

  “We’re both Master Betrys’s apprentices,” I explained. It wasn’t exactly a lie. We still had a chance to prove her wrong and regain our positions.

  “And we’re here on important business,” said Moppe.

  “Best be very important business to drag us all from our beds before dawn, Agamopa,” said a voice from the doorway.

  “Agamopa?” I repeated. “Is that your real name?”

  Moppe rolled her eyes. “No. It’s just what my mother and Aya insist on calling me.”

  The woman who had spoken was quite possibly the oldest person I’d ever seen. Her wind-tanned skin held a thousand wrinkles and her hair was a fog of pure white curls. She—like the two girls, I realized belatedly—wore a thin nightshift that came down to her knees, showing off two sturdy but knobbly feet.