Chapter 23 #2
The melody scurried further, and she slipped down a rung on the ladder.
Breathe. Focus. She opened her clenched fists as if she could drop the distractions to the ground.
The band leader shook his head at her in confusion. The aria section had finished, what was she doing? Cadenza signaled him to play through it again. And kept climbing.
Taran’s ax fell to the ground as the cave sucked half his spirit into a suit of armor.
The visor on his helmet rendered the view of Thomas and the candidate murky.
If the candidate chose correctly, Taran and the other Guardians would fully materialize in the armor to greet and swear allegiance to their new Crown.
Or they were supposed to. The last time the Guardians had been pulled to the cave was for the Crown after the one who’d died in the same raid as Taran’s mother.
That had been before his raid on Ercildoun, and before the curse.
He didn’t know what would happen to his body now if a new Crown were chosen.
What is he playing at? Taran didn’t need to speak it out loud.
Steady on, Drostan’s voice filled his mind.
During this in-between, half-there, half-not state, the Guardians communicated thought to thought.
The Fates intended it as a proving point to ensure they were all of one mind when a new Crown was found.
No treachery possible when everyone could read everyone else’s thoughts.
Thomas could hear the candidate’s thoughts to ascertain purity of intentions, but he couldn’t hear the Guardians.
Seriously, Ruairi sent out. After all this time, now he decides to do his duty?
He must know, athair. Taran’s body at the cottage cringed, but no earthquake current ran from him to the ground.
Their talents were off the table while in-between.
Thomas knows what Cadenza and Reyna are up to, and he’s brought in some poor fool as candidate to keep us tied up here and out of the way.
Aye, Ruairi agreed. If we’re here, Cyrus must be here too, which means no critter for the hand off and no backup if they need it.
I’m right here, thanks. Cyrus’s voice jumped into the muddle of minds. I can think-speak with the best of them, you know. Taran swore he could feel Cyrus roll his eyes.
You’re not thinking, lads. Drostan’s thoughts cut through their worry. Thomas is in the cave. If he wanted to stop Cadenza and Reyna, he’d be out there, not in here. He can’t do a bloody thing about the vault from in the cave. It must be a real candidate.
The candidate moved to the table. Whether proper choice or failure, the in-between should be over soon.
Athair, Taran thought. We’re forgetting our new colleague won’t know what’s going on, or how to join our wee ‘group chat.’
Oh, dear, Drostan thought. Reyna.
Only a Spinner can open it. Only a Spinner can open it. Cadenza’s thoughts grew more desperate.
The ladder melted into a great, glass hill, slippery as ice. She tumbled to the bottom. Two of the notes snuck out of her throat, out of control, and a wine glass burst at the front table.
Why did I think I could do this?
There—a gap. The seam. A soft, empty darkness slivered between plain and cave. Reyna dove for it.
Reyna, lass.
She pulled up short. Drostan?
Aye, it’s me. He quickly explained what was happening. Did you already open the vault room?
Yes, But Cadenza’s floundering. She needs help.
There’s nothing more you can do now, Drostan sent. We can’t use our gifts half in and half out. You opened the door, but if she can’t get the box open, we’ll have to try again.
We won’t get another chance. Dizziness rocked her view. Between the plain, the cave, and this weird thought sharing, her body didn’t know where to anchor. Thomas was getting suspicious. We only got this far because Canon’s doing something to keep him distracted.
A pause. Then Taran’s voice roared through the void. Canon is the candidate?!
Canon swallowed. Details emerged as he studied the items on the table. The shirt was old. Sweat stained the armpits. Frayed thread stuck out of the cuff beneath cheap, plastic buttons.
On impulse his hand reached for it, but he recoiled, yanking his arm back.
That was his father’s shirt, his father’s life. And he had left that life behind. He could do better than that. But as he watched, the shirt changed. The frayed edges softened, beckoning like a comfortable sweater. The stains felt honest, earned.
A vision formed in his mind of a man, strong and whole. His legs rooted into a green hill and his arms extended up to rich, golden beams pouring down from the sun. Bounty flowed from him, nurturing the world around him.
Gasping, Canon stumbled back, and the vision broke. Thomas watched him, face unreadable.
He examined the newspaper next, careful not to touch it.
He wasn’t ready to pick yet. The front page featured a bold, one-word headline: VICTORY.
Under the headline a black and white photo showed a ticker tape parade for a man in a convertible.
Adoring faces lined the sides of the parade route.
Power and justice rippled from the photo and teased up Canon’s arm.
Clearly whoever the parade was for had done right by these people.
But… He flipped his gaze between shirt and newspaper. The man in his vision, and the man in the photo were the same man.
What, then, was the choice?
The band leader started through the aria for the third time. Cadenza fought to keep her tears at bay. If she cried, she couldn’t sing.
I can’t do it. It’s not going to work.
The memory of Taran melting into a Ferrari hit her like a fist to the face. He needed her to be able to do this. They needed answers.