Chapter 20 #4
He dropped onto the sofa, turning away from me to look at the collection of books he’d set aside.
He didn’t move fast enough for me to miss the helplessness in his face.
“We expelled the draveths from our realm. Their final act of cruelty and rebellion was performing their own nefarious spell. I thought it was a counterspell to prevent their exile, until the lycans around us disappeared. Every last one of them.”
His hand washed over his face. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fragmented piece of mica.
“Annessa’s connection to them helped us find the realm where they were imprisoned.
It took years. None of our magic worked to free them.
The inability to release them gradually destroyed her.
I couldn’t do anything about it.” Cirrian’s gaze drifted away, lost in memories.
“She blamed you?” From his pained expression, I knew the answer.
“Her sorrow became my prison. It was unbearable watching a deity with such immense power reduced to powerlessness. I believed part of her blamed us for their imprisonment.” His voice dropped to a desperate whisper.
“She accused me of pushing for violence when diplomacy would have sufficed. I argued that diplomacy always fails when the ultimate goal is power. And I accused her of weakness.”
A bitter smile twisted his lips. “The irony is that in her absence, because of my efforts to free the lycanthropes, I became what she’d feared—ruthless when necessary.”
I waited for more, but he seemed hesitant to continue. “You believe she chose to leave her land because she couldn’t release the lycanthropes?”
He shook his head. “No. I believe she left to search for a way to free them and—” His lips pressed into a rigid line as if he was fending off the word died.
I felt I understood his sorrow and determination. It wasn’t just that he wanted to release his friends, he also needed to succeed where his lost love had failed.
Turning to the books, I stacked the four he’d chosen that contained spells he believed would work and returned the ones that were of no use to the bookcase. “Where do you want to start?” I asked.
He looked through the books again and put one aside. “I can’t guarantee you’d survive this one,” he admitted. I didn’t bother looking over the book in the unfamiliar language and tried not to dwell on the fact that the spell was ever an option for him.
Picking up another book, he scanned over the spell before his eyes lifted to meet mine.
“This one won’t be comfortable. I don’t believe it will be painful.
It will unbind you from all magic that isn’t yours.
” He frowned at the words. I really wished I knew what they said although it was probably better I didn’t.
“Rather than a surgical extraction, it will be a blunt demolition of dissimilar magic. Any remnants of your protective spell as well, since I don’t believe that was part of your magic.
” It seemed like we possessed the same curiosity about the protective spell that had saved me from the draveth.
“How do you want to proceed?” he asked. Moving closer to him, my fingers brushed over the script, as if touching it would invoke some language translation.
Cirrian didn’t have my complete trust. I wanted to give it but recognized that his priority was releasing the lycanthropes and fulfilling a tacit promise to Goddess Annessa.
My startled gasp filled the room when my hand vibrated faintly on the book. Cirrian’s brows drew together.
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked over the book again, apprehension in his frown.
“Let’s do it.” I closed my eyes, tensed my body, and held my hands balled at my sides preparing for the “blunt demolition.”
Instead of violent magic, a soft kiss pressed to my cheek. My eyes popped open. “Keep them open,” he urged. “I need to read them.”
He spoke the words in a melodic rhythm, making the unfamiliar language feel like a ballad, and that was the only thing beautiful about it.
Magic barreled into me, knocking the wind out of me.
It wracked my body, jostling it as if it were a vessel descending bumpy terrain.
It knocked me to the ground, where I stayed.
“Kara.” Cirrian kneeled next to me. Closing my eyes, I took several slow breaths, seeking a comfort that would slow my pounding heart. Cirrian’s eyes were a black abyss. He closed them, and when they opened, their amber hue had returned.
“I hate delving into archaic magic.”
It felt like kismet, sharing the same disdain for the spell and, it appeared, the chaotic response to it.
“How do you feel?”
Taking inventory of my body, I searched for any changes. Power. Thrumming of magic. Warmth. Nothing.
Whispering several spells I’d heard from Amelia, I tried to move objects in the room. Nothing. Taking a spellbook off the bookcase, I chose a simple warding spell that only required a strand of hair or blood. No shimmer of magic or flash of color to show that it was engaged. I shook my head.
After disclosing that the first spell was the strongest and the most likely to work, Cirrian’s dwindling optimism could be seen in the execution of the other two spells; the magic potency felt like a light trickle compared to the thunderstorm of the first.
He smiled, a thin and resigned one. “We need to go to the basement.”