Chapter 51 #3
Audra’s chest heaved as she struggled to pull in a full breath through frantic sobs.
There seemed to be no air left in the courtyard despite the clouds looming overhead.
It seemed wrong that the clouds should be so carefree when Audra was held captive in this nightmare, captive to this … this curse.
It was out there for all to see now, how other she was, how wrong her magic. She’d scribed a healing incra, and instead it had invigorated the poison, the liquid death.
Twyla’s heartbeat fluttered weakly, all of her veins almost completely black. Despair whipped through Audra, clenched around her heart.
Hundreds of eyes gazed upon her from all around—initiates and scholars and priestesses, every class, caste, and background—and yet it was one thought ringing loud in every mind, even hers.
Audra was Heir to the prophecy.
But Khari had known, how many else had known? They’d been fattening her up with birdseed, and it was finally time to wring her neck, pluck her feathers, and season their prize—didn’t they know, couldn’t they see, she was their prey, and finally, she was ripe for their feast.
Twyla’s heart stuttered. She was fading in Audra’s arms, any moment, her heart would beat for the last time.
Audra was powerless to stop it.
But power she had.
It filled every crevice of her body, coalescing, begging to be let free, to take the acolyte’s death, Cersha’s death, Margaryte’s, and every other initiate lost to the Zenaidans’ pointless war games, and exponentially expand them.
One by one—first the Archmagistra, then the priestesses, then every scholar who wouldn’t lift a finger to help.
Audra flung her head back and screamed in anguish.
A dark, inky black streak clouded from her mouth, filling the space around her. She dropped Twyla, scooting backward, away from the girl.
Gasps and screams rose up around the courtyard as chaos erupted.
Audra managed to snap her jaw closed, to cut off the power erupting from her mouth, and she glanced around frantically.
Finally, she saw them, her friends, breaking free from the priestesses who’d been holding them captive.
There, Wilder—Callum, even Lottie! She felt a mild stirring of emotion, something akin to surprise, when Noel, as well, raced toward her, not away, like the rest of the initiates.
Her friends all shouted for them to let Audra go.
She wanted to tell them to run, run, because she couldn’t risk opening her mouth again, she couldn’t control this power, this thing seeping from her palms.
They were too close, too close—she tried to shake her head, to warn them away.
But then, the acolytes pounced on them, tackling her friends to the ground.
Even Callum, massive, Callum. Her friends hadn’t expected the acolytes to be so proficient in magic; they hadn’t expected the binding spells to be so absolute.
Audra felt a mixture of fear for her friends and relief that they were safely away from her.
Audra had to tear her eyes away when her magic thickened, coalesced, seemed to amass, focus, and stream straight toward Archmagistra Syleste, who was issuing an order for Twyla to be retrieved, to be sent to the mediscribes.
But it was too late for Archmagistra Syleste now, even as relief flooded Audra that Twyla would be healed—would live—her magic was determined to take a life today.
Archmagistra Syleste produced a high, terrified scream when she saw the dark, writhing mask flowing toward her and raised a hand to scribe protective incras—but Audra knew, somehow, innately, that any incra the female tried to scribe wouldn’t work against her power.
It would consume the Archmagistra until there was nothing left.
But then, the priestesses descended upon her like vultures to carrion, and though she tried to order her magic back to herself, so that she might turn it on the priestesses, it ignored her command.
“Come back, back to me,” whimpered Audra, fear hammering within her.
The Archmagistra was evil, yes, and should be punished for hurting Twyla, among a thousand other harms to every human here, but it was the priestesses, the Chorus of Echoes, that Audra needed protection from right now.
The dark cloud surrounded the Archmagistra in a swirling, tornado-like ring. A blink and the darkness constricted. Khari, along with the other scholars, attempted to shield the Archmagistra, whose pained screams and shrieks of agony echoed through the courtyard.
Audra focused back on the priestesses now. They were upon her, eyes wild, mouths split into eager, hungry smiles, their hems muddy, shifting as they encircled her.
“Leave me alone!” cried Audra, raising her hand, spinning, to keep them all in her sights. Gods, Zhaire, where was Zhaire? She needed him. She needed him here. She began to scribe an incra.
“We have our Heir at last, sisters,” they sang out to each other. Their shining pale eyes were the last thing Audra saw before something sharp slammed into her temple, and the world went blessedly dark.