Page 38 of Level Up for Love

Moss looks greener, and the others appear to have lost their appetites for the ciders set out before them. Absently, the wizard touches his fingertips to the handles of each mug in turn, and they begin to steam again with the heat of his spellwork. “Any other questions?” he asks cheerfully.

“Many,” Antoni grumbles.

“Can he do it again?” Vera asks.

Mortimer purses his lips. “Theoretically, yes, of course. Realistically…I am not sure. It is a prohibitively expensive process and takes a great deal of time to prepare.”

Moss blinks. “So does he have any extra clones of you left?”

Mortimer opens his mouth, shuts it, frowns, and then opens it again. “He opted not to tell me.” His tone is high-pitched with pent-up frustration. “As he thought the knowledge might make me act recklessly, if I knew I had clones to count on. So I am operating under the assumption that there are no more left, or that none are ready, and that this is simply my lucky second chance—my last chance.”

“Clever man,” Sindra muses.

Moss leans forward, her fingers laced around her mug. “You seem very unbothered by it all, Mortimer,” she observes. “Dying, and being brought back.”

His brow furrows. “And whyever should I be bothered? I have always had a very neutral outlook on dying, natural process that it is, and my studies have only served to rid me of any fears I had. I would have been left to the dirt in the end, as we all are, or Master Kaelenas would have used what was left of me to further his own research, which would have been a great honor in itself.”

“Back to the earth,” Moss murmurs thoughtfully.

Sindra chimes in. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for him to create clones of us all?”

Moss looks stricken, and the Wards look a touch sick. But survival is survival, in Sindra’s book.

Mortimer shifts uncomfortably. “I could ask,” he says uncertainly. “But even if he assented, it would take months to do.”

Vera shakes her head grimly. “We don’t have months, or time to wait around.”

Antoni leans forward. “Indeed. We have work to do.”

Sindra tries to still her tail as it flicks anxiously behind her. “Is this the part where you tell us what you’re on about? How we kill the king and end the curse?”

Vera glances away, muttering under her breath, “Prince Vadrien is not the king.”

Moss’s brow knits. “How can he rule Moros and not be the king?”

“He doesn’t wear the crown,” Vera says simply.

Sindra feels the prick of eyes on the back of her neck; when she looks up, her gaze meets the bard’s. In the corner of the room, the red-haired woman cradles her harp on her lap and continues to play her song, but her attention is fixed on their conversation.

“What’s a crown, when he’s king in everything else but name?” Sindra asks bluntly. “What does it matter?”

“It matters to us. The people of Moros.” Antoni scowls. “We’ve already given up so much. Refusing to acknowledge his reign is something we get to keep for ourselves.”

“But he could just…get a crown made, couldn’t he?” Sindra snorts.

Vera shakes her head. “The crown of Moros, it’s—” She sighs, and it almost sounds wistful. Reverent. “It’s not just a piece of metal, or a symbol. It’s a powerful holy relic.”

“How do you mean?” Moss asks.

Vera clears her throat delicately, but she’s interrupted by a loud, resonant chord plucked from the strings of the harp. The bard begins a new melody, and just the first few notes are enough to catch the attention of every person in the room. Mugs are set aside, conversations die mid-sentence, and every pair of eyes turns toward the bard and her small, knowing smile.

Vera smiles at Moss. “Listen,” she says. “You’ll see.”

The bard begins her ballad, her voice surprisingly deep and sonorous.

The land was broken, bloodied, barren,

A wasteland full of devil-kind.