“The heir of Cordell,” Angra announces as he walks forward and crouches before Theron, leaning on his staff. “You give new meaning to the wordvaliant. What was your plan? Sneak into my city and freemy latest Winterian slave?” He reaches out, grabbing Theron’s chin and wrenching his attention up.
“Or are you expecting your father to sweep in and save you both?” Angra purrs.
Theron’s stoicism breaks in a gasp that matches my own.
This is what happened to Theron while he was imprisoned in Abril.
Green eyes narrow, Angra cocks his head as if he’s listening to an echo. His expression flashes with a look I never thought his face capable of. Eyes relaxed, lips parted: shocked awe.
Angra recovers, stroking his thumb along Theron’s jaw. “Do you really think he’ll come?”
Theron’s brows peak, a spasm of doubt that he might not even be aware of.
Angra latches on to it. “You and I are not so different. Shall I show you how similar we truly are?” He places his hand on Theron’s head.
Theron cries out. Whether or not this already happened, I can’t let him scream like that—I dive as Angra rips his hand back, letting Theron rock forward, eyes pinched shut.
Theron’s shoulders heave as he retches. “No,” is all he says, his first muffled word. Then, with more terror, “No! He didn’t kill her like yours did . . .”
Kill her? Who? What did Angra show him?
Angra clucks his tongue. “He did, little prince.” He pulls back and watches Theron squirm as the black magic retreats into the staff. “We’re the same.”
“Meira!”
I bolt upright in a haze of flickering yellow, clenching fistfuls of fabric that tug against my grip. I’m in my cottage in Gaos, the brown walls misshapen and cracked enough that cold air darts inside. The small room holds nothing more than a cot and a few tables, but on every table, candles burn. Dozens of them, and I blink at the light, my eyes darting from flame to twitching flame faster than my brain can process a reason.
The fabric in my fists tugs again and I start.
Sir is here, his hands braced on either side of my legs, and I clutch his collar as if I might draw him into a fight. Theron is here too, hovering at the end of the cot, an unlit candle in one hand and a match in the other.
Angra. The memory. I cave forward, head to my knees, releasing my grip on Sir. Why did I see that?Howdid I—
“The magic chasm,” I pant and burst upright. “The door—there was a barrier—”
It all rushes back to me: the stone door, the keyholes in the carvings, the sensation of being burned from the inside out. A barrier prevented us from approaching the door. A magic fail-safe that launched both Theron and me away, but only hurt me.
Since Iammagic, maybe it reacted badly. Maybe it collided with the nearest person and dredged up memories, ricocheting my magic out in a frenzy. But Theron isn’tWinterian—how did I affect him? Or was it not me so much as the barrier’s magic reacting to my own? Whatever it was, whatever the reason, it’s only a spark in the fire of this horror.
“Whatever magic is down there, we can’t touch it,” I declare.
Theron gapes like it was the last thing he expected me to say.
“Here, my queen. Drink this.” Sir tries to hand me a goblet of water, but I shove it away.
“We found the magic chasm,” I state, forcing myself to hear it, to feel it. “Something’s blocking it—a barrier of some sort. We cannot take down that barrier. If we access the magic, if it spreads out to everyone—”
Theron pitches closer to my cot. “That’s exactly what needs to happen.”
I hesitate. The sight of Theron before me clashes with my memory of him writhing on the floor of Angra’s dungeon. Was what I saw real, though?
Hannah.I stretch out to my magic with tentative, uncertain thoughts.Was it—
Cold sparks up my chest. A normal reaction to seeking the magic, but where it usually flares and fades, this time—it doesn’t quiet.
It spurs higher, plummeting down my limbs, gathering speed and strength as it races to launch out of my body. Irear back, slamming into the wall beside my cot.
No,I will it, screaming in my head.STOP!
