“Are you saying that Perry . . .” Ashby looked back and forth between them, then lost his speech too.
“I’m sure there is a memory spell on you,” Jules said. “You were old enough to remember when they took you. Our family has unerringly produced Sorcerers in every generation. Danata was counting on you Morphing into one. No doubt about it. She needed someone for her heir.” Jules looked toward Ashby with palpable hatred. “And you did morph into a Sorcerer, and a powerful one, it seems.” Her voice broke, and she shook her head as if to hide her emotions, but the effort was useless. There were unshed tears in her eyes, wavering and reflecting the light of the lamp at her side.
Silence saturated the room. No one said anything for a long time, and the only thing that seemed to break the spell was Brooke taking a step closer to Perry and intertwining her fingers with his.
“I could remove the spell,” Jules said, “if you want.”
Perry shook his head, and it was as much a response to the Sorceress as a sign of his internal conflict. If someone had tampered with his mind, it had been to do more than just erase memories. They had also implanted a fake childhood, along with fake parents who had died before he turned three. Maybe at some point he should have questioned those memories, but he never had. There had never been a reason to do so. He’d been happy at Rothblade Castle. He’d been happy growing alongside Ashby, his friend, his brother. Why would he ever question such a thing?
Perry wanted to refute Jules, to tell her it was impossible. He wasn’t her grandson or related to her, even remotely. But he was the boy in the picture. He remembered his own face at that age. And why would this woman have a photograph of him? And why would the woman in the photo look so much like him? Why, if it wasn’t all true?
“We . . . are . . . here for a different reason,” Perry said, his words halting and fragile.
“I think this news is a shock to everyone,” Ashby said in his most diplomatic voice. “Especially Perry. It will take some time to process.” He looked apologetically at Perry, as if he was to blame for what his mother had done.
Perry nodded, grateful that his friend was here. He had no idea how else he would have been able to keep himself under control.
“I understand,” Jules said in a gentle voice that seemed to surprise even Greg’s father, the person who knew her best. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who could sound mellow. She looked tough and weathered by many years of suffering.
“I apologize for my antics,” she continued. “I’ve never had any reason to expect anything other than subterfuge. And I have always acted accordingly. None have ever gotten the best of me after Danata. I knew she was responsible for whatever happened to Maggie,” she turned to Perry, “and to you, but I was never able to prove it. So when Nick told me about your missing friend and I understood what Danata’s caste is, those old wounds reopened, and I planned to take her son, the way she took everything from me. That’s why I led you here. I’m sorry.”
She looked genuinely regretful, and Perry could feel nothing but pain for the old woman.
“To make it up to you, I will give you what you need. Please, follow me.”
Jules left through a heavy oak door in the back of the study. They all exchanged uneasy glances and waited for Perry to make the decision to follow.
Brooke pressed a cheek to his chest and hugged his waist with one arm. He rested his nose on her hair and inhaled her strawberry shampoo. His heart grew quiet and calm. He felt something deep for her, and that knowledge made everything else appear small and inconsequential. It also gave him strength.
“Let’s do this,” he said, and began walking with Brooke by his side, her hand tightly in his, their steps in unison. He could even feel her heartbeat in his palm. It, too, was in perfect unison with his.
Chapter 37
Veridan
After stepping into the portal, its blinding light died, abruptly disintegrating into deep darkness. Unbalanced by what felt like a physical assault, Veridan fell to his knees. He screwed his eyes, then blinked, desperate to see his surroundings.
His other senses overcompensated and threatened to drown him in a myriad of stimuli. The smell of wet earth and sharp pine filled his nostrils. An incessant chirping overpowered any other sounds but for the pounding of his heart. His fingers curled into claws, digging into what felt like mud.
By degrees, his vision adjusted. He was on all four in a clearing of wet land, surrounded by ferns, thorny bushes, and huge shadows. For a moment too long, he stayed frozen, telling himself he wasn’t being a coward, rationalizing that his senses needed to become accustomed to the onslaught.
One muddy hand moved to his amulet as he reassured himself there was nothing to be afraid of. He was a Sorcerer and no matter where he went his caste had to be one of the most powerful.
Veridan rose to his knees and looked up. Legs trembling, he stood, head thrown back. Straight overhead, he could see a patch of night sky, and the small corner of what looked like a blue moon. The top of the trees scratched the purple-hued sky, almost reaching the stars.
Slowly, his gaze dropped, following the length of one tree for what felt like an entire minute until reaching its base. He marveled at the massive girth of its trunk. He took a few steps back in the hopes of understanding its magnitude, but it did no good. The trunk was at least as wide as a bus, but Veridan had a feeling it prove much larger in the daylight. There weren’t trees this large in London, not to mention a blue moon.
A smile spread across his lips.
He’d done it.
He was in Nymphalia.
Veridan turned his attention to the chirping that still filled his ears. With his senses back to normal, the sound didn’t seem as loud. Still, he wondered if the bugs responsible for the horrible din were as large as the trees. The idea made him grimace. He pushed it aside.
He stepped out of the mud, the soles of his shoes making a sucking sound. Once on dryer ground, he stamped his feet to dislodge the larger chunks. His pants were ruined, but he refrained from using a spell to clean them. It would be foolish risking his amulet’s energy at a moment like this.
Lowering his gaze, he searched the ground for two stones that would fit in his palm. He found two jagged ones with bits that sparkled as he held them to the moonlight. Gripping them tightly, he spoke an incantation and felt them change until they became a perfect pair of orthotopes. He’d learned a long time ago to always make a back-up, as Fate seemed to have a wicked sense of humor against those who were unprepared.
Now, he would be able to return to this very spot from anywhere inside the nebula.
Pushing ferns and bushes aside, Veridan eased his way out of the clearing, following nothing but an instinctive sense of direction. He walked through the strange forest for ten minutes, passing several of the massive trees and catching hints of wildlife—scuttling sounds in the underbrush and the wingbeat of what might have been an owl. The night was crisp, the air the cleanest he had ever smelled.
When he began to think the forest had no end, he spotted something ahead.
He rushed forward, abandoning the care that had guided him thus far. Tripping over a large tree root, he stumbled onto a cliff’s edge. The supple ground under his shoes abruptly changed to rock.
Veridan held his breath as he peered over the edge of the cliff to a large valley below. He inched closer, skirting around a boulder that he’d barely noticed in his awe. He drank in the scene below, his chest tightening with a feeling that had, long ago, become a stranger to him.
Happiness.
A city sprawled before him—something pulled out of a fairytale, the jewel of his dreams. It was no crude human city, infected by pollution and made garish by millions of neon lights in all the colors of the rainbow.
No. What lay before him was nothing like that.
Veridan couldn’t believe his eyes, the pristine layout of the streets, the soft warm lights that illuminated every window, the abundance of trees, fountains, and c
obblestone roads. But what stole his breath most completely was the magnificent palace that sat in the middle of the city like a precious jewel in the center of a perfect amulet.
Veridan trembled with delight. His expectations hadn’t been wrong. Morphids had built this place and it seemed like they lived as diligent masters of their own land—unlike humans who destroyed everything in the name of progress and in their mad race to overpopulate every place they inhabited with their most inferior specimens.
He stepped away from the cliff’s edge, his heart swelling with a strange pride. He wished we could transfer down into the city this very moment, but he had to become familiar with this realm before being able to do that.
But no matter. He was closer than he had ever been.
He was contemplating what to do next when a movement caught his eye. The boulder he’d skirted just a few minutes ago had moved.
Veridan stepped back and took hold of his amulet.
Something squirmed inside the large boulder. A sigh escaped from its depths. Veridan looked closer, never blinking, never releasing his amulet, and discovered that what he’d mistaken for a boulder was a person wrapped in a gray blanket.
The person rolled over. A pair of dirty, bare feet and a head of matted hair stretched out from under their covering. It was a man, old and decrepit-looking. He blinked and yawned. Then, with a start, got to a sitting position, curled his legs in and hugged them. He cowered, avoiding eye contact and murmuring under his breath.
“Please please please . . .” he pleaded, speaking something that wasn’t English, but that Veridan could understand, nonetheless.
“Don’t hurt me. Please please please. I don’t bother anyone. I stay away. I stay away.”
Veridan’s lip curled in disgust. “Pathetic creature,” he said and was surprised by the foreign, yet familiar, words he’d spoken.
“Yes yes yes. Pathetic. Filthy. Casteless.”
Casteless?!
The Sorcerer took another step back.
“Spare me, your Eminence. I will retreat further from Alas. I will not soil your sacred city.”
The man’s words raised a thousand questions in Veridan’s mind, which weren’t wise to ask until he understood this place, its inhabitants, and its politics better.
“Leave.” Veridan made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
The man didn’t wait to be told twice. He gathered his dirty blanket and woven bag he’d been using as a pillow, and disappeared into the brush.
When the rustling of the man’s retreat ended, Veridan walked closer to the cliff’s edge and, creating a flame on the palm of his hand, found a path by which to descend.
A two-hour hike would take him within the city limits. He was tired and coming back later might prove a better decision, but Veridan couldn’t leave now. He had waited too long for this, and it was now within his reach.
He began the journey down the side of the mountain. Nothing would stop him now.
Chapter 38
Sam
For the next couple of days, Sam practiced using her powers to exhaustion. Her main focus had been to increase her reach to be able to spy better and, perhaps, find a way to escape. So far, she’d barely accomplished the former goal and was sorely disappointed in the latter.
Though, through cracks in the wall, she’d been able to reach outside the confines of the cell block, she’d been unable to extend her tendrils any further than the labyrinthine halls in the general vicinity, catching glimpses of an ornamental suit of armor, the guard’s boots, and nothing else.
Now, she was pacing, waiting for her dinner to arrive, waiting for the courage to try the plan that had been swirling in her mind after she concluded her feelers had reached their limit.
When, at last, steps echoed outside her cell and the door opened, she sat at the edge of her cot, looking hungrily at the tray. The guard gave her and the room a quick once over, then left with little more than a huff.
Sam knelt by the tray and ate her toast and drank her water. Her stomach twisted, hoping for more. Toast and water for a wanna-be chef. What torture.
Damn it, if she ever got out of here, she would cook herself the richest pasta bowl she could concoct.
After sipping the last of her water, she pushed her back against the wall and focused on keeping track of time as best she could. She estimated that dinner was brought down around 8 P.M., so she planned to wait four hours before setting to work.
When she started to nod off, Sam jumped to her feet and paced, counting the seconds.
“One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three Mississippi.”
They trickled into minutes and refused to become hours.
Yet, she waited, staying in her cell. Manacles on.
At last, she slipped off her restraints and left the cell, closing the door behind. She tiptoed in front of Jacob’s door. There was a twinge of guilty as she passed by, but she didn’t want him to worry while she did this. She would see him later to share what she found out.
At the top of the stairs, she slipped under the door—she’d started to feel as if it was her consciousness doing all of this, not the vinculums—and confirmed a guard was outside. Unlike the one the other night, this one stood at attention, a gun at his hip, eyes wide open.
Sam cursed under her breath.
What now?
Sneaking out was going to be risky enough with a sleepy guard outside, but this?
She pulled back and sat on the top step, considering. An idea occurred to her that immediately sent her heart into a rapid patter.
Making up her mind, she went back downstairs and to the end of the hall. There, she let her longest vinculum slip in through the tiny crack in the wall—one she’d been using to spy the halls above. She rose through a thick layer of old stone and mortar. The hall she reached was empty besides the suit of armor and a few dim sconces.
Light bounced off the armor’s polished surface. The dude cut a massive figure with large shoulder plates, a slitted helmet, a long spear, and a hatchet-looking thing.
Sam moved closer to examine the platform it stood on. She hadn’t paid close attention to it before, but now she examined it from every angle and saw that the plated armor was not attached to the wooden pedestal by any visible screws.
Tentatively, she pushed on the armor, testing for any give. There was none. She pushed harder. The helmet rattled a bit, but that was all. Sam frowned. Would it prove too heavy to move?
Well, that wasn’t an option, was it?
She took a deep breath, pulled her vinculum back, and then, with all her energy, lashed it at the armor like a whip. She felt faint for a moment, but forced herself into alertness. Slowing her breaths, she watched the hollow knight tip and balance on one leg, rattling slightly. It stood suspended, neither falling nor returning to its original position.
Allowing herself a small smile, she pressed her vinculum to the helmet for one final push.
One. Two beats.
The armor crashed to the stone floor. Sam imagined its thunderous clatter like a dozen frying pans thrown by an angry chef.
Adrenaline jetting into her veins, she ran back up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Her vinculums went ahead of her, wriggling under the door before she even reached the top step.
The guard had abandoned his post and was nowhere in sight.
The suit of armor was just around the corner, and he might not stay away too long. She had to hurry.
Without wasting another moment, she wrapped her vinculums around the heavy metal latch and slid it out of the way. The door swung open in her direction. Heart in her throat, she stepped through the doorway, into the hall, then quickly closed the door, leaving the latch in the exact same position.
Fists pumping, she ran in the opposite direction of the armor and around the corner of a different hall. As soon as she turned, she stopped and pressed her back to wall.
She had no idea how she would get back into the cell, but that wasn’t the pressing matter at
the moment. Right now, she had to focus on making her escape count.
She had to find at least one clue or idea of how to truly escape with Jacob. And that meant not being discovered.
Chapter 39
Greg
By the time they got back to the hotel, Greg was exhausted. The whole ordeal with Perry’s grandmother—Greg still couldn’t believe that turn of events—had been draining, even for him. And he didn’t want to think how it was for Perry himself, especially after he’d had to say goodbye to Brooke again.
Now, the Sorcerer was sitting on Greg’s mattress in the same spot as before. He was uncharacteristically quiet, drawn into himself like a turtle with its head inside its shell.
Ashby was standing by the window, lost in some faraway thought, also dead quiet.
Restless, Greg pulled out his sword from the scabbard and practiced a few defensive moves, relishing the weight of the weapon in his hands.
Jules had taught Perry the transformation spell, and he had learned it in no time. No one had been surprised, least of all his grandmother. She’d only smiled proudly, her eyes full of some sort of yearning that Perry seemed oblivious to.
Now, all they had to do was wait a couple of days for the Conscription Ball, and they would be inside of Rothblade Castle, rescuing Sam and Jacob.
In the meantime, he would practice with the sword until not a drop of Perry’s magic could get past him. Ashby had assured him that even though Greg would be unable to bring the weapon to the ball, there was one in the castle that they could easily fetch once there—a display piece of some kind. This made Greg uneasy, but nothing was going to stop him from getting into Danata’s lair.
After a while, he put away the sword and turned to Perry. The Sorcerer looked depressed, sitting like a limp scarecrow without a backbone.
Greg had just opened his mouth to say something when a commotion sounded outside the room. Ashby and Perry snapped out of their stupor and looked toward the door.
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