Daughter of Magic, page 7
He stepped over the rubble and through the arch into the only place he’d ever called home. Swaths of blue mixed with gray and scarlet as bodies of Mages littered the courtyard, broken and bloody.
His fallen family.
His throat caught as he passed the frail body of a student who looked in his first years of training, a young boy. His arm was missing, and deep burns and gashes marred his face and torso. He lay frozen in horror, a silent scream begging to escape widely parted lips.
The buildings of the Guild were in ruins. Declan had been taught that every building in the complex was Enchanted, protected from any harm man or magic could wield. Yet here they were. Black and gray. Torn and burning. The world’s most precious flower withered and dying before him.
He looked up and hope rose as he spotted the Guild’s Tower looming overhead, still unmarred by the chaos, likely protected by the vein of raw power flowing beneath its stones. His heart fell again when a snapping sound atop the Tower drew his attention. He looked up and froze at the sight of the black pennant darting sharply with the wind, an accusing finger to all the world around that had yet to yield to its dark purpose.
Declan fell to his knees, overwhelmed and overwrought. His city, his home, his family. Gone. Sobs came in waves, and his vision blurred.
When his eyes opened, he was still on his knees, but in the center of town where five roads and a river met, Saltstone’s hub once alive with the chatter and clatter of hooves on stone. He saw bodies again, this time of merchants and Guardsmen and others. He couldn’t stop the screams and wails of the people, the mothers torn from their children, fathers broken nearby, unable to rise. As if a distant memory, he saw merciless men on horseback swinging swords and axes into the heads and necks and backs of innocents, some barely old enough to run away. Anguish and anger gripped his soul.
Amid the horrors and visions, suddenly nothing stirred, save smoke and ash and wind. There were no sounds, not even birds or dogs or anything alive. Saltstone stood mute.
And then it hit him.
There were no people.
He looked around quickly and couldn’t find a single living person among the broken bodies strewn about.
Where is everyone?
This hadn’t been an invasion; it was an annihilation.
A tall woman in a gown of flowing black ink appeared in the exact center where the five roads joined. She held a staff of pure silver carved with strange symbols that glowed faintly along its length. On her brow sat a crown of glittering silver and gold inlaid with seven bloody jewels that pulsed brightly in an odd, aortic rhythm.
The woman turned and pierced his soul with her stare. She smiled, threw back her head, and laughed. The sound echoed throughout the city-turned-tomb.
Her eyes snapped back to his, and she called out, “This is your doing, Declan. Your victory!”
She pointed the silver staff, and its symbols flared brightly. Hungry blue flame streaked from its end and struck him in the chest. The flames crawled across his body, consuming everything it touched. Declan’s consciousness darkened to a writhing, anguished nothing.
* * *
He woke sometime later to the tickling of Órla’s tiny feet against his chest. He was so relieved to see the owl and find himself back in the Keeper’s hut that he began to sob. Órla nuzzled his neck and gave a whirring moan, as if to share his grief.
It was just a dream! Keelan and Atikus are alive! It wasn’t real.
“It wasn’t real,” he muttered through sobs. “Please tell me it wasn’t real.”
“No. Not yet.” The Keeper’s deep voice shook him. “You stand before the forked Path of Tomorrow. Life and death so often hinge on the simplest decisions, many we face without knowing the cascade we may cause.
“The Phoenix demands honor, wisdom, and truth. You, Declan Rea, stand before the world with the power to shape and mold—and destroy. Your Path, your choice, will reroute the river of time itself.
“You stand before a fork in the Path, and you have seen where each road leads. One will save your people. The other is the end of everything. You alone must choose.”
Declan looked up through wide, watery eyes. “What do you mean I must choose? Why do I have to do any of this?”
“I’m sorry, Declan, but there is no more time. If you cannot choose, or refuse to, both visions will come true.” The Keeper placed a small candle no taller than his thumb on the table and lit it with a flick of his wrist. “When the flame dies, the future is fixed. Spirits guide you, son.”
The Keeper vanished.
Órla vanished.
Declan stood and whirled around, but they were gone. He was alone. Along with the candle burning quickly.
He ran both hands through his hair and held his temples with his palms, trying somehow to calm his racing heart.
He closed his eyes and was suddenly five years old and standing in the yard of the Mages’ Guild. Atikus stood behind him, tickling his ribs as he howled in laughter and his bladder threatened to betray him. Keelan ran into view and attacked the Mage’s ribs, the three falling to the ground in a pile of laughter and squeals and tears. The tickling stopped just in time to save his dignity, and Keelan helped him to his feet. He wrapped his arms protectively around his younger brother’s scrawny shoulders. Declan looked up to catch the old Mage grinning at the pair, pride swelling in his eyes.
The present slammed back into him as he sat alone in the cabin, staring at the tiny flame, wax barely fending off flame from the table’s surface.
Atikus saved them both when their parents died. And Keelan was his protector. Relentless. Steady. Unflinching. Sure, he’d resented his brother’s success, that he was good at everything he tried. But they were brothers and, well, he loved him.
Spirits, how long have I been running? Keelan always had my back—no matter what. I’ve been such a fool, so jealous, so . . . childish.
And now I’m told to sacrifice him? To pick between killing the only people who ever loved me and the whole world? What kind of choice is this?
The dying screams of Saltstone echoed in his mind. He could see and hear and smell death everywhere.
Then he saw the woman. Her angry flame. His dying breath.
In one vision, he was surrounded by soldiers who would likely kill him. Or worse—capture him. In the other, he died in a magical blaze alongside the rest of the country he loved.
He looked down to see the candle’s flame flickering, its wax exhausted. His anger and fear and helplessness poured out as he screamed at the ceiling, “I DON’T WANT TO CHOOSE! I WON’T CHOOSE! TAKE MY LIFE INSTEAD!”
His voice turned into a whisper. “Please, just take me instead.”
Exhausted in mind and body, he closed his eyes and slumped to the floor.
7
JESS
The Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Spires, future Queen of the most powerful nation in the world, jarred awake with the realization that her hands and feet were tied, and she’d been tossed unceremoniously onto the back of a horse like a sack of grain. The horses were riding hard along the King’s Road, making her uncomfortable position nearly unbearable as saddle and buckle dug into her stomach with each bounce. She tried to orient herself, to get some idea of where they were headed, but her vision swam every time she tried to lift her head.
Another arrow streaked high in the night sky. The screech of its whistler and pop of the firework attached to its shaft marked their location for troops within range. The masked men spurred the horses to greater speed and the countryside flew by in a blur.
Another whistler took flight some distance to their right. A second team of constables or soldiers closing in on their position. The moon was bright that night, casting a dim glow over the landscape. Long minutes passed before she finally risked the overwhelming nausea and lifted her head to look for those giving chase. There was no one in sight. She strained for their hooves over the clatter of their own, but still nothing.
The horses began to falter, and the robed men called out to each other in a strange, guttural language. Moments later, the man in the lead pointed to his left, and the team veered off the road. If she hadn’t been tied to the back of the horse, Jess would’ve been thrown as the beast traversed the uneven land. A small voice in the back of her head laughed and thanked the Spirits that she didn’t have a mirror to see the bruises on her back and buttocks that throbbed with the horses every stride.
They entered a forested area, forced to slow to a trot in exchange for the disguise offered by thickening trees. The exchange paid off an hour later when one of the men returned and reported seeing constables searching the road. The lawmen moved on when they found no trace, completely missing their trail into the woods. The masked men decided to stay hidden in the forest for a couple of days to let their trail cool off.
Winter was now only weeks away, but the men refused to light a fire. Jess shivered in the darkness, bound and propped against a tree. She was cold and tired and hungry and scared and sore. Well, she was everything all at once. It was overwhelming. The drug they’d given her dulled her soreness—and her mind—but not her racing emotions.
As she tried to shake the fog, to remember what had happened, Danym’s smile appeared in her mind. That smile always made things better, made her smile. Then reality slammed into her mind: Danym was one of them! How was that even possible?
She vaguely remembered escaping from the Palace and Danym’s help as they fled the capital. Her memories of the mountains were a blur, but the emotional rollercoaster they experienced in the town of Spoke was clear. The men in masks chasing them. The horses racing up and around and down the winding mountain road. Those horrible men had nearly stolen him from her in one frightful shot. She could still hear Danym moaning as the Healer removed the arrow and used his Gift to save him. There was so much blood.
Then, in the middle of their desperate flight to freedom, they’d enjoyed a few hours of uneventful, blissful peace. They’d held hands across a table by a warm fire, surrounded by people laughing and eating. They talked of nothing and everything. He’d been so sweet and gentle. She’d looked into his eyes and believed a new life was possible—a simple life without royalty or duty or her mother’s insane expectations.
In a flash, her memory shifted from Danym’s smiling eyes to those of the stranger wearing the wild raccoon mask. He towered over her, holding her down on the ground as another masked man appeared with a poisoned cloth. His eyes were grinning again, but not a smile of happiness or love. There was a distant, malevolent gleam, something she’d never seen in him before. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered hope, hope that the racoon man wasn’t actually her Danym.
But in her heart, she knew. She knew it was him. She would know those eyes anywhere.
Jess stirred. She was stretched out on the ground, and small rocks dug painfully into her legs and buttocks. She could see two of the men sitting quietly on pallets ten paces away. One of them caught her movement and stood, watching her closely.
“Are you hungry?” he asked in a raspy, inhuman voice.
She shook her head. “No, but I would like some water.”
As he knelt by her with a skin, she looked up at Raccoon. No, Danym. She drank deeply and began to cry. He took the skin back, but continued to kneel beside her. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
She smacked it off with a flail of her arm and glared up at him, her eyes ablaze with anger and pain.
“Don’t you dare!”
Raccoon closed his eyes, nodded, and turned.
“Wait,” she whispered tentatively. “Where are you taking me? Danym, tell me what’s going on. I’m scared.”
Raccoon looked down at her, and she thought pity flitted across his eyes before he silently retrieved the skin and walked to his pallet, leaving her staring at his back.
Something in her snapped and she screamed, “My father will take your head for this, Danym Wilfred! But not before my mother sees you flayed alive!”
Apparently, raccoons could laugh.
“I HATE YOU!” Jess grabbed a nearby rock and tried to hit Danym in the back, but the straps tying her wrists caused her stone to fall short. She turned away and wept quietly.
8
DECLAN
Declan crumpled onto the ground, knees wrapped in his arms, head down. His stubborn sobs refused to subside. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder and the soothing sound of a woman’s voice. “My son. My beautiful boy.”
Declan lifted his head and was startled to find an ageless woman kneeling before him, strength and comfort flowing through her piercing gray eyes. Her face held no lines of age and looked like perfectly cast porcelain to his eyes. Her dark, rich skin glowed. She was stunning.
She lifted a smooth hand and cupped his cheek affectionately. “I thought I’d never see you again. Oh, how you’ve grown, my Declan.”
His eyes darted, taking in the surrounding cave. He stammered, “Where—what? Who are you?”
The woman’s confident air faltered. Her eyes retreated to her feet before returning to his. “My name is Kelså Rea. Declan, I’m . . . your mother.”
“My mother? Spirits, I’m in another vision. What this time?” He wiped the tears from his eyes and braced himself to stand.
She held her hand to his shoulder firmly, holding him in his seated position. “No, Declan. This is real. No more visions. You passed the Keeper’s test, offering yourself in sacrifice for others—for everyone. In choosing to die so others might live, you proved your heart worthy of the next steps along the Path. It wasn’t one of the choices offered, but it was the only acceptable one.”
Declan’s head reeled. He stared at Kelså, afraid to move or speak. How could any of this be real? His mother died years ago. And here this woman, who looked nothing like him or Keelan, claimed to be returned to him?
Órla hopped into his lap. “I knew you’d make the right choice. You’re a lot smarter than you look.”
Despite everything, Declan laughed. “Uh . . . thanks . . . I think?”
“Anytime! Can you scratch my head while you talk?”
Tension drained away with the simple act of scratching the owl’s fuzzy, knobby head. Tension, but not confusion and frustration and a hint of anger bubbling up from somewhere deep.
He looked around for the first time and realized they were in a small natural cavern. Two torches hung in rings on either side. Smokeless flame danced on ends that never appeared to char or burn. On a small wooden table in the center of the room sat a pitcher and two glasses, exactly like the ones he’d seen in the caves with the magical Gates. At the opposite end of the room, the cavern opened into a tunnel whose walls flickered with the same magical light.
“Come, sit. Have some wine and rest.” Kelså poured the silky liquid into each glass and sat. Her shimmering golden dress swirled and flowed as if alive, its contrast against her skin mesmerizing.
He set Órla onto the table and fell into the chair, and exhaustion finally replaced the myriad of other emotions consuming him. He took a sip of the wine and smiled at the familiar warmth of the Healing drought. This time it tasted nutty. Amazing.
“This is the same wine from the caves with the Gates, isn’t it?”
“We do allow ourselves a few luxuries, my dear.” Kelså winked.
They sat in silence for a long moment as Declan finished his glass and poured a second.
“Declan, I know you’ve struggled with who you are, who you want to be, who you’re supposed to be. I’m here to help you now.”
The bubbling anger found its way to the surface. “How could you know that? How could you know anything about me?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “They told us you died. But I see now; that was a lie. You just left us. You want to help me understand that?”
Kelså took a deep breath and looked away, stung. To his eye, she looked strong and powerful yet suddenly appeared small and unsure.
“I’m so sorry, son. Leaving you and Keelan was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and there wasn’t a single day that passed without you in my mind and heart. But we had no choice. You must believe me.”
Fire blazed in his eyes, and he stood to put distance between them. “You always have a choice. Isn’t that what that stupid test was all about? You chose to walk away from us. I was so young that I couldn’t even picture you in my mind, couldn’t remember a single moment with you or our father.
“But Keelan—he was old enough to remember you. Whatever you did stripped him of your face, but he remembered having a mother. He spent years crying in his bed at night when he thought no one was watching. Years telling me stories of you and father, desperate to recount every moment he’d ever spent with you so he wouldn’t forget and lose you a second time. He always thought Atikus lied when he said you died, and I think that made it worse for him. In his heart, he knew you were alive but didn’t care enough to stay.”
Declan paced away from the table, then turned back, his voice low, pained. “He spent his whole life trying to protect me—to protect everyone. But he couldn’t protect himself. When the nights came, and he cried himself to sleep because he wasn’t good enough or strong enough or . . . whatever . . . to keep you there, he couldn’t save himself. That was your job, and you walked away from it.”
Declan’s anger poured out; a waterfall of emotion released from the dam built so long ago. He stalked to the edge of the room, his back turned toward his mother.
The silence that followed was broken by a faint clink as Kelså removed a silver pendant from her neck and placed it on the table. Declan turned and she locked eyes. She stood, then looked at the locket and stepped away from the table, surrendering the space to her son.
