Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Odessa’s heels clack against the stone as she guides us down five flights of stairs and into the palace courtyard. Sterling walks beside me, and our shoulders occasionally brush. Each contact sends a familiar warmth rushing through my veins that has nothing to do with my fire magic.
Beneath the inscrutable mask, I notice the slight curve of his mouth. The bastard’s entirely too pleased with himself for roping me into this.
The courtyard opens into a sprawling space that’s currently being used as a workshop.
Scaffolding surrounds a tiered fountain with stone cherubs perched along each level like decorations on a mutant wedding cake.
Craftsmen hover around it, tools in hand, pausing their work as we approach.
They bow hastily while clutching chisels and hammers.
“Your Highnesses, the fountain is nearly complete. The craftsmen have been working day and night to ensure it meets the royal standard. The Traditional Fountain of Eternal Union.” Odessa heaves a happy sigh.
Sterling settles into the mask of polite interest he wears at court. Unfortunately, mine isn’t half as good as his.
The craftsmen scatter, clearing a space around the fountain. Sterling approaches with the lazy confidence I’ve come to love and envy. His movements are unhurried yet purposeful, like he has all the time in the world but refuses to waste any second.
“If you could just fill it with water, we could make sure everything works the way it’s supposed to, Your Highness.” She clasps her hands together and gazes at the fountain like it’s the greatest thing in the world.
I have to admit, the artistry is exquisite.
Sterling nods and positions himself. I hang back, arms crossed, watching the way his back straightens and his fingers spread. The water in the base tier stirs, responding to his presence even before he begins the formal magic.
When he raises his hands, the water leaps to obey.
The dance is beautiful. The water rises in perfect spirals, defying gravity and streaking through the air like liquid silver. It foams gently through the first tier, spelling out “Love” before regathering to climb higher.
“The first tier represents the passion and devotion that bring two souls together,” the wedding planner narrates, and I cover my involuntary snort with a cough.
That earns me raised eyebrows from Odessa.
The water curves through the second tier, “Fortune,” splitting into delicate arcs that intertwine before separating again.
“The second level symbolizes how prosperity and abundance flow from a harmonious union.” Odessa sighs yet again, dimples popping out in her cheeks as she smiles.
Sterling’s hands move with practiced grace, each gesture fluid and deliberate. His focus is absolute, his breathing measured. This is Sterling in his element, the soldier’s discipline applied to artistry.
As I watch him work, my skin heats. I probably shouldn’t find this hot, but I definitely do.
The water reaches the final tier, “Fertility.”
Odessa mercifully skips her explanation as the water gathers above the fountain to form a shimmering sphere that hangs suspended in the air. Sunlight hits the droplets, casting prisms of color across the courtyard stones.
“Perfect!” She claps her hands together in delight, and a few of her papers go flying. “Absolutely perfect.”
Except it’s not.
From where I stand, I don’t miss the slight tremor in Sterling’s right hand or the tightness around his eyes.
Something’s wrong.
Normally, he could fill a fountain with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back. No concentration necessary.
I instinctively step forward, my own magic stirring beneath my skin. Not that fire would help with this task, but the protective impulse rises anyway. Sterling and I have always been opposites. His ice and water to my fire and heat. Complementary forces.
At least, that’s what the court poets say.
The sphere wobbles, its perfect form distorting for just a moment. Sterling’s lips turn white, and I can tell his usual confidence is faltering. His fingers twitch as he tries to maintain the water’s flow.
A sharp pang of worry shoots through me.
Is Tirene’s magic fading too? The reports from some of the provinces have been troubling. Magic users losing control. Strange anomalies. But the native Tirenese have always possessed stronger magic than people born in other kingdoms. No eyril needed here.
I haven’t sensed any problems with my fire magic, but as a dragoncaller, I’m not exactly the norm either.
“Sterling?” I murmur, too quietly for the wedding planner and guards to hear.
He doesn’t respond, his attention fixed on the water sphere. The edges start to warp, and smooth curves become jagged. Ice crystals form dripping cascades where only water should flow. “Not again…”
My throat tightens. Again? His elemental magic is fighting him.
I position myself behind him, my muscles tensing in anticipation of needing to…what, exactly? I have no idea what’s going on or how to help. My fire magic would only worsen the situation.
My gut clenches when I realize…there’s absolutely nothing I can do.
Sterling extends his magic toward the crystals, clearly trying to melt them back into the water. Instead of dissolving, they pulsate with a faint inner light that appears blue at first before shifting to a purple so deep it’s almost black.
Caught up in her excitement, the wedding planner misses the change in Sterling’s demeanor. “Oh, I don’t recall that from the manual, but it’s gorgeous—”
One of the cherubs adorning the fountain turns its head with a stone-on-stone grind.
Its blank eyes fixate on us before sweeping across the gathered craftsmen. Another cherub moves, and another, until all four of them stare at the assembled crowd. The clink of crystals falling and striking each other creates a discordant tune.
Sterling’s shoulders tense. “Holy shit.”
Agreed.
So much for a dull afternoon full of minute wedding details.
Instinctively, I reach for the short sword at my waist. But what’s the point? If weapons didn’t work against the stone warriors, I doubt they’ll be any more effective against the cherubs.
One cherub opens its mouth.
Instead of stone teeth, diamonds reflect the light in painfully bright flashes.
Odessa skitters backward on her heels, her composed demeanor cracking. “Oh, I don’t like this.” Her high-pitched tone squeaks with the beginning of panic. “Not one bit.”
Preach, sister.
Fire gathers in my hands. Water or not, if those things attack, I’m incinerating them.
Raising their open palms to the sky, the cherubs begin to sing.
I flinch. Singing might be the wrong term for the jarring pitch that pours forth. As the collective screech rises and falls in words I can’t understand, splinters slice through my head.
My skull vibrates.
One at a time, my ears pop.
Pressure builds in my jaw.
My nose burns, and tears prick my eyes.
Craftsmen collapse to their knees even as they try to flee. Trees twist, whether from the musical assault or to continue the supernatural attack, I can’t tell.
Dread sours my stomach as I meet Sterling’s eyes and see my own anxious question reflected back at me.
What now?