83. Rosalina
Rosalina
She’s not the Wrenley from Orca Cove, swamped in darkness and oversize clothes. Neither is she the Nightingale, with her prismatic armor and stolen bow.
Instead, she wears tight black pants and a shirt—typical wear for under armor—and her face is bare. No mask. Just her, with her short, wavy hair, round cheeks, and eyes like lightning.
She lowers her weapon. I don’t recognize it, but it appears to be a standard short bow, wooden with a quiver of arrows on her back. Something she could have pilfered off a soldier or a goblin.
Beautiful and deadly and angry. And even though Sira tried to beat it out of her, an O’Connell. Even if she doesn’t know what it means yet, I do, and I see it in her every move.
“You came,” I whisper.
Her lips curls. “Would have been here sooner, but my briars gave out.” She stalks over. The shortest member of our family, she looks up at Mom with an expression of complete derision. “What’s wrong with you?”
Mom crosses her arms. “If I answer that, we’ll be here for weeks, and none of us have the time.” She sighs and relaxes her stance. “Look, we need to make it up to the High Tower and save the roses. Can you help us?”
Wrenley looks at Mom, then me, and finally Papa. Her gaze softens as it drifts over him. Then it jerks to the floor. “I can get you there.”
“Come on.” I kick the dead gargoyle out of the way and wrench open the door.
Up, up, up, we round the spiraling staircase. Mom leads, with Wrenley and Papa in the middle, while I take the rear. My body is still so weak, and my head swims with each step.
Papa falls to the ground. I tumble over him, scraping over the rough stone.
“Are you alright?” I gasp, grabbing his shoulder.
He heaves in a breath, sweat dotting his brow. “Yes, my girl. Let’s keep going.”
Once we secure the roses, we’ll figure out a way to save Papa. Maybe we can find a seed of Castletree’s, or I can find a way to transfer his life force to something else. I won’t give up.
I help my father up, and we catch up to Mom and Wrenley.
“Here!” Mom cries, gesturing us all into the chamber at the top of the High Tower.
What breath I have left escapes. No. No.
The room…this felt like the place where magic began.
A place so sacred, nothing could ever touch it.
But it’s as destroyed as the rest of Castletree.
The beautiful murals of starfall and winged orbs lie in chunks of painted rock across the floor.
The briars that once gleamed golden with blossoming roses are now withered husks.
And the stained-glass windows are a shattered rainbow on the ground.
Through the broken panes, I see outside is a warzone. Harpies and gargoyles dive-bomb through the air, and goblins skitter across the branches like maggots over a corpse.
But there, in the middle of the chamber, are four roses, still blooming, still holding on despite everything. Blue, pink, turquoise, and orange, all shimmering with a golden glow.
I’m transported back to a tale told in a monastery, before I ever knew how woven I was into the history of the Vale. How when the Above was falling, Aurelia saved four roses from the Gardens of Ithilias and, with that, kept magic from leaving the world.
“Castletree’s not protected anymore,” my mother says, running over to them. “We have to remove them and take them somewhere safe.”
I draw in a shaky breath. So I will be like my mother. I will steal this magic away from its home and plant it somewhere new. Someplace where it has a chance.
I fling myself down beside my mother. She rips off a chunk of her skirt and lays the fabric out. “We’ll wrap them in here. Carefully now, carefully.”
I lace my fingers into the dirt, feeling for each root. It’s like the threads of my mates’ power, each one sacred.
My mother and I work in tandem. Slowly, we unearth Keldarion’s sapphire rose and lay it in the fabric. “I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper.
Then we begin toiling on Ezryn’s pink rose.
Wrenley paces nearby us. Papa saunters up to her. “So, uh, you’re Wrenley?”
Wrenley jerks her head to look at him. I expect her to make a cutting comment. To sneer and say “That’s my name, don’t wear it out” or, knowing Wrenley, something more clever and mean.
But instead, she averts her gaze to the floor again. “Yeah.”
“I’m George. Nice to meet you.” Papa holds out his hand to her. It’s shaking.
A bright red flush creeps across her nose and into her cheeks as she takes his hand. She doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t push her.
My heart thrums against my chest as we work the roots free and place the pink rose beside Kel’s. Two more.
Guttural screams echo up the staircase. In a single swift movement, Wrenley draws her bow, an arrow poised at the door. “Hurry up. I don’t think we have much time.”
I force myself to stay steady as we place the turquoise rose with the others. One more.
Together, my mother and I free the orange rose. I stare at the empty plots where they once withered and blossomed. A home for our love story.
Wherever we are is home, I think to the roses, even as tears sting my eyes. I’ll protect you.
Mom squeezes my shoulder as I carefully bundle the roses in the fabric and clutch them to my chest.
I rise to my feet. “Okay, let’s go—”
It happens so fast. The blink of an eye, the beat of a heart.
There’s a chittering sound, familiar from the Briar.
A goblin appears in the window, standing in the pane, heedless of the shards of glass. He raises a bow, his arrow trained on Wrenley.
She’s facing the door. She doesn’t see. I scream her name.
It’s too late. By the time she turns, the arrow’s flying through the air.
But Papa’s not too late. He leaps, throwing his entire body in front of hers.
The arrow makes a squelching sound as it pierces his chest, and in that blink of an eye, that beat of a heart, I am drenched in my father’s blood.