Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Beside him, Bastion stops in shock, in a deep-purple suit that matches Card’s tie.
Without the usual sword at his hip, he seems off-balance, off-kilter.
Although that could be our entrance’s fault.
Farther back on the stage, in grand layers of jewels in the blues and silvers of the kingdom’s flag, King Garland and Queen Fern stand with a healthy Prince Merit at their side.
The queen’s face twists in loathing, framed by coiled black hair and makeup that covers the sunken, stressed skin I’d witnessed earlier, while the king looks pallid, more than when I last saw him, his broad shoulders curled inward. The effects of Morgana’s poisoning.
In the stillness, before chaos can crack the room, something calls to me.
Something familiar and powerful and floral.
I snap my head toward the back corners of the room and see two glass vases on white marble stands—one containing the Feiyan flower, its petals alert and bold and blazing like a flaming arrow; the other containing one of the Odyssa, the snowy petals shying from the congregation in a nestle of deep blue leaves.
If I’m not wrong…I scan the back of the stage and dread coils like a snake down my back.
The other Odyssa and Lunarie hide in the other corners of the room, completing the cycle, the looped order that grants them power. Waiting.
The queen makes the first move.
“Get out,” she hisses, striding forward and shoving Bastion out of the way. He stumbles into Card over to the left side of the stage. “GET OUT.”
The armed and armored guards lining the room search for Ava, for command, and find her missing. I use their indecision to stride forward, past stunned citizens and mounting whispers. I get halfway down the aisle when someone in the front row rises.
“She told you to get out,” Morgana says, lifting the long sleeves of her midnight-blue gown.
“You’ll have to try harder to kill us next time,” Will taunts before she can use a spell, and sends a teasing tendril of wind toward the front half of the room.
“What are you doing?” Card demands, gripping Bastion’s hand.
“Saving your life,” I say.
“From what?”
“From them!”
I point to the flowers in the corners of the room.
The tension in the room is taut and mere seconds from snapping.
But as long as Card keeps his mouth shut, there’s still hope.
The flower vases I prepared this morning have many uses, and one of them is silence.
I summon a red flower to my open palms, just as I did for the guards outside.
“Card,” I say.
He scans my face anxiously and sees only fearless determination. My only friend, forgive me for hurting you one more time.
“I really am sorry about this.”
He doesn’t have time to respond before I imagine the flower in his hands, imagine the magic bleeding out, and the tingle of sorcery follows my command.
A beat later, Card drops to the stage, unconscious.
Silent and unable to declare his love. Bastion falls to his knees beside him as the poppy crumbles into red sand.
“What did you do?” the prince cries. “Card!”
The queen hauls herself to the front of the stage and raises a finger.
“Kill them!” she says. “Now.”
Finally, like releasing air trapped in a pipe, the room erupts.
Six guards stream down the aisle toward us, but Will is ready.
He cuts his hand in a sharp horizontal line, and the front two guards stumble to their knees, toppling the pair behind them.
Chairs crash back and guests scramble to the ribbon-strewn walls.
I focus on the Feiyan in the back corner.
I imagine it in my hands, conjure a vision of its warmth and intensity, and say the summoning spell.
Nothing happens.
“Go,” Will says, lifting his hands again for another blast. He’ll keep them busy.
I run for the Feiyan, past the crowds and clamoring, and just as I reach it, a burning rope of light whips around my wrist and yanks me back.
“No!” Morgana screeches.
I glance over my shoulder to find her twisting a hand in my direction, biting the rope farther into my skin.
“Stop them!” Fern yells.
“Encho kaveh,” I say, and summon an orange butterfly weed with tiny bright flowers that cluster like a constellation. Let me go, the flower sings, and the magic soars down my fingers, to my wrist. Morgana’s magical light cracks apart.
I seize the chance to take the Feiyan, but my hands hit an invisible force field around the flower vase. I summon a single gladiolus with large peeled-back petals. It means sword, a piercing smack, strength. It doesn’t matter. The protective border holds.
A sudden blow of wind makes me stumble into the wall. Two more guards are on Will and he ducks, a sword grazing the very tip of his curls. The chairs between us are fallen gravestones, a ghostly white destruction. He checks on me and it costs him.
A blade slices a gash down his sleeve and blood pools forth.
No!
I forget the Feiyan. I can’t get to it anyway. I sprint back to Will, who cradles his limp forearm to his chest. He jerks back, dodging another strike, and whips a golden shield in place.
“Encho kaveh,” I say, and catch the gentle pink eglantine that appears.
It fills the air with a sweetness like apples and fresh rain on stone, a concoction of healing.
I press the flower to Will’s arm and the wound knits together, easing the clench of his jaw for the time being.
The flower disintegrates like the dust of the damaged ceiling.
“No good?” Will asks through gritted teeth.
“They’re protected.”
He nods and concentrates on the shield. Some guards groan, winded on the floor of the aisle, but two are still on their feet and there’s only a matter of time until Will is too exhausted to cast anything.
On the stage, the king has an arm around Merit’s shoulders.
He doesn’t seem to have much strength left, but what little he does, he’s using to protect his son.
Bash kneels over Card still, leaving the center stage free for Morgana and Fern.
Morgana rubs Fern’s arms soothingly as the queen wrings her hands.
“This wasn’t the plan,” the queen mumbles. “It’s all gone wrong.”
“What plan?” Bastion asks. “Mother. Tell me what’s going on. Now.”
“It’ll be okay, Fernie. We can work around it,” Morgana replies, a surprising pinch of concern on her sharp face. She shoots her head toward the guards. “Why haven’t you killed them yet?”
“Mother!” Bastion shouts.
Over the noise, a small whine of pain escapes Will, like a cat with a thorn in its paw. A thin red trickle seeps down the arm of his jacket. And his shield spell shudders.
The guard blocking our path lifts his sword.
For a fraction of a second, I believe that we’re dead. Will’s dead and I’m back in the physician’s room, tossing in agony and bleeding out. Instead, an arrow whizzes past my ear and pierces the shoulder of the guard’s armor, sending him crashing to the floor.
“I said nonlethal,” Lark scolds from behind.
I whirl around.
From the open doors, Pigeon lowers her bow and grins in apology. Lark stands beside her in a dark suit, weaponless, a look on his face like he’s fighting regret. Ava and Nettle appear too, sword and knife in hand and just as dirty as we left them.
“Why on earth would you give that back to her?” Nettle snaps.
“Because I’m excellent at disruption,” Pigeon says. “He’ll be fine.”
It earns her one of Nettle’s most disapproving glares.
Pigeon. She’s okay. Her eyes are bruised from tiredness, and her braid has all but come undone. Aside from that and her still-healing burn, she’s here, she’s fine. Another friend I can tick off as alive and safe. The four of them jog down the aisle, and Ava pushes through to the guards.
“What is going on here?” she barks. “Why are half my men on the floor and not protecting the citizens? Get to it. Now.”
“Captain!” Morgana shouts. “Arrest those intruders!”
Ava ignores her. She points a threatening finger at Will and me. “You two are testing every inch of my patience. You’re lucky I need to focus on the safety of the guests right now. I swear to the gods!”
Will’s grin can’t hide his discomfort. He keeps his forearm pressed to his chest to stay the bleeding as he says, “My chance of a pardon off the table, then, Captain?”
She purses her lips so tight they disappear. “We can talk about it later.”
“Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” the prince shouts.
From the aisle, we peer up at the performance onstage. Morgana takes Fern’s face in her long fingers. Her lavender eyes are wide as she wipes a tear away from the queen’s pasty cheek.
“Fern. Do you want this?” the sorcerer asks. “Tell me and I will make it happen.”
The queen’s eyes linger on Card’s curled up form. “You said—You said it wouldn’t—”
With the bewildered guests lined safely at the sides of the hall by Ava’s command and the aisle now clear of guards, I start moving again. This ends now. Will matches my pace, still gripping his injured arm. Fern sees us coming and her face flickers in panic.
“Bash, Morgana cursed you as a child just like she cursed me,” I say, confirming the truth we suspected. “They’ve planted a spell that will remove it, but the cost will be Card’s life.”
“It’s why you can’t use magic,” Will says. “Why the tree backfired.”
“What?” Bash scrunches up his face.
Will and I reach the bottom of the steps.
I twirl my hand and, without speaking, summon another flower.
Another poppy. If I can put Morgana to sleep too, she can stop interfering.
Bash runs his eyes over Will. He’s unsure what to make of him, unsure whether to trust him.
It’s been too many years since the card games and sleepovers.
Just then, the sweetness in the air vanishes and my flower’s healing effects wear off.
Will winces, his arm jolts, and the queen flinches. She clutches Morgana. “Do it. Do it now,” Fern says.
The fear is a punch to the gut.
Morgana twists both her hands and the spell activates.
A green circle emanates from the ivory carpet—a large glowing shape that takes up the center third of the stage.
Shimmering lines of magic pour out like molten metal in the direction of the flowers in each corner, tinging the white wall a sickly hue.
The shapes in the circle sharpen, become opaque, become recognizable as those from the dark magic book in her chambers.
This is it. The hall hums, vibrates, hisses, and before Bastion can whip into action, Morgana lashes out a rope of energy and forces Card’s sleeping form to his feet.
His eyes shoot open the moment he’s flung toward her.
“NO!” I sprint up the stairs.
Desperate, I launch the poppy, but it shrivels the moment it collides with a sliver of that green magic.
The gust of wind that Will sends at Morgana bounces right off.
She grabs Card’s chin, and the circle beneath them glows like poison.
He struggles. He fights and claws her wrist, but she holds him in place.
“Card!” Bastion roars.
He’s closer than me, faster than me. As is the king. He lunges forward to grab his oldest son and secures him safely in his grasp.
“NO! LET ME GO!”
“Card! Don’t say anything!” I yell. “Let him go!”
At the top step, the queen throws her arms around my waist and hoists me to the right of the stage.
Her foxglove scent taints the air as I resist her, as I push and heave and try to get to my best friend, but she keeps me pinned tightly from behind.
Frantic, losing hope, I search for Will.
He’s at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the step like he’s changed his mind about climbing up.
He looks serene, almost. Set. Decided.
Willoh Vane grins at me. That stupid smirk. That stupid, stupid smirk.
It’s the last thing he does before a shift shakes the room, a similar push of magic like when we were falling into the lake.
He’s had a backup plan all along.
In a blink of magic, Will takes Card’s spot.
He shoves Card out of the circle, out of Morgana’s grip, and for a moment, she gawks, pointed nails left holding nothing.
Card skids backward on the opposite side of the stage and gasps for breath as, around Morgana and Will, the circle of dark magic bursts like a sunspot.
It shines and solidifies, burning the runes and lines into the carpet, building a glistening wall of translucent emerald-green that imprisons them within, trapping Morgana and Will together.
“WILL!” I scream and buck against the queen.
Morgana grabs his throat and drives him to his knees.
“Well,” she says. “I suppose you’ll do.”