“Now isnotthe time to test me,” Sharpe snapped.
“Wait. You’re going to invade her memories?” Domenic balked. “But you can’t. That’s not fair. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“So Syarthis will judge, I’m sure,” Sharpe said flatly.
“What if I spoke to her? Maybe I—”
“Barrow, you’ve spoken quite enough.”
“But—”
“Dom, don’t,” Hanna said, her voice oddly strained. “I’ll be back soon.”
She left.
Domenic clenched and unclenched his fists, hating himself. All he’d been thinking was that maybe, just maybe, Caldwell could save him. She had an alban wand, after all. No doubt she’d make a better Chosen One than he did.
Instead, he’d condemned her.
Fuckup,he told himself.
“What if destiny is just taking its time?” he asked frantically.
“A minute ago you were throwing a tantrum about how you don’t believe in destiny,” Sharpe muttered.
“Yeah, well, this Chosen One thing is new to me. If destiny needs to tell me another piece of the prophecy, maybe—I don’t know. Maybe I just need to give it another chance to try.”
Truthfully, he had no idea what he was saying. But once upon a time, Domenic had sensed greatness within himself. Maybe Valmordion had, too. Maybe it was still there, had always been there, and he really was capable of this.
As Domenic grasped the handle, every color in the room brightened, dizzyingly vibrant. The wand’s heat seared through his gauze, as though he gripped an iron over an open flame. Yet he forced himself not to let go.
And he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, when he could no longer stand it, he dropped the greatest wand in history onto the table with a clatter. Fresh blood bloomed through his bandages.
Sharpe’s lips curled. “Ifyouare all that stands between Alderland and the end of its days, then we are all damned.”
Domenic didn’t—couldn’t—defend himself. Instead, he lunged toward the trash can, falling onto his hands and knees. He vomited. He missed.
XIIIELLERY
WINTER
Curtains were drawn over the windows in Glynn’s office. The scenes of a sunny Alderland were frozen in their frames, the record player silenced. Ellery waited in her ash-smothered clothes, still reeking of burned hair and flesh. Despite a healer’s best efforts, her wounded palm remained raw beneath its bandages.
Order magicians had confiscated Iskarius as soon as they found her in the grove, then escorted her here. Glynn questioned Ellery while President Sharpe hovered behind him. Ellery scarcely remembered what she’d said, only that she’d created a wand of alban wood, a wand whose name had come to her in a rustle of dying leaves. A wand that wielded the magic of Winter. But all thoughts of what that might mean were submerged deep within herself. Reality rippled as though she were underwater; she was distant, lost.
Time passed. An untouched tray of refreshments cooled on Glynn’s desk.
She sank. She drifted.
The door creaked open.
“Evening.” Hanna Mayes fixed Ellery with a hollow stare. The door thudded shut behind her.
