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10
I closed my bedroom door and sank against it, only to find myself being watched from the mirror by the me-that-was-not-me. Her cheeks were flushed, nightgown rumpled, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her dark hair took on ruddy glints from the lamplight, her blue eyes bright with tears. But she wasn’t me—on her lips, there was a hint of a smile.
I turned and slammed my hands onto the wall on either side of the mirror. “Tell me what it means,” I demanded. “Tell me what to do.”
Instead of answering, she spoke in sync with me, almost mockingly.
Angrily, I reeled my hand back and drove my fist into her face. The glass split into a dozen radiating shards before falling from the frame onto the desk below and shattering into a thousand silver pieces.
I slowly pulled my fist back, staring at my bloody knuckles. Despite everything, there was one thing that had changed for the better in the last hours:
I no longer had to be afraid to use magic.
My blood seemed to sing in response to the thought, begging me to do it. To use it. To unleash the power within it.
With Simon gone, the only place I knew to find answers was in the book he’d sent me, and that was back at the Stella Regina. My blood surged as I closed my eyes and whispered, “Urso fons est scriptor.” To Urso’s fountain.
The spell I’d used to transport Zan and me away from the coronation was an incredibly taxing one; I hadn’t really felt the effects then, because most of the blood I’d used had belonged to the Tribunal cleric Golightly, and I was fueled by rage and the imminence of our demises. My second attempt did not go so smoothly. I meant to transport myself to the statue of Saint Urso, too drunk to worry that it might still be occupied by the Tribunal; I ended up in the River Urso instead.
The water was shockingly cold, and I sputtered as it dragged me toward the lights of Greythorne Village downstream. The river rocks were jagged enough to bruise and scrape me as I tumbled past but too slick to catch hold of.
There! The mill loomed up in the dark. I threw a hand out and caught the water wheel by its edge. My fingertips scrabbled for purchase against the splintery wood, and the whole contraption creaked and sagged precariously beneath my weight, but I kept my head above water long enough to catch my breath and secure my hold. From there, I was able to move across to the river’s edge and haul myself up into the reeds at the shore, shaking in my thin, waterlogged nightgown.
On the other side of the mill, I could hear voices. Harsh, angry. I hunkered lower into the cover of the rushes and crept to the corner of the mill. From there, I peered out at the scene on the other side.
The place was crawling with Tribunal clerics, each with a spinning wheel hoisted over his shoulders, marching imperviously past the anguished cries of the women to whom the wheels belonged and into the village square, where they tossed them into a pile. The wheels sat in an akimbo stack, cracking and groaning each time another was added to the top.
Arceneaux was standing like a steel rod by the door of the mill, her features a mask of cold calm, unmoved by the pleas of the Achlevan spinners. Prudence Lister was standing beside her, nodding her approval as her clerics worked. “Every last one of them,” the old woman said. “We can’t let them weave anymore witchcraft.”
“Thank you for your help, Lister,” Arceneaux said, her eyes sliding over the woman with a toleration that seemed to border on disdain. “You’ve done your country a great service.”
The icy river had shocked me into sobriety, and with it came full understanding of my predicament. I was cold, unclothed, shaking, and surrounded by Arceneaux and her collar-wearing cohorts. Even if I used a blood spell to render myself invisible, I’d leave wet and muddy footprints in my wake, and that was if my chattering teeth didn’t alert anybody first. But I had to move, and soon, or risk death of cold.
I had no choice; I had to use magic. And despite the poor outcome of my transportation attempt, the invisibility spell was one I knew well. As luck would have it—if you can call being scraped across serrated river rocks luck—I was already bleeding.
“Ego Invisibilia,” I whispered. “I am unseen.” I took a tentative step from my hiding place.
I ducked behind one of the Tribunal clerics carrying the last of the spinning wheels on his back, mostly to keep out of Arceneaux’s line of sight. Spell or no spell, I felt quite certain that Arceneaux would see right through it if I got too close to her.
I had to scramble out from underfoot as the cleric hoisted the wheel onto the mountain and then stepped back to admire his work, as if he’d just added the finishing flourish to a painting. I slid from foot to foot to keep up with him as he moved to make room for Arceneaux.
“My brothers and sisters!” She raised her voice to the townsfolk, who’d come out of their houses to watch the midnight spectacle. “Today is an auspicious day! We have crowned a king, yes, but more importantly—we have exposed his traitorous sister and freed him of her influence. Make no mistake, we have a lot of work ahead of us. It will take months, perhaps even years, for us to fully recover and rid ourselves of the vermin that have infested our communities. Our homes and businesses. But we are strong!”
There was a murmured assent rising up from the townsfolk. Arceneaux smiled. “We are transcendent! And tonight, we are the first spark of a wildfire. Together, we will take our country back!”
With that, she struck a match and tossed it into the towering collection of wheels. I watched in helpless horror as the flames took hold, slowly growing larger and more ravenous while people clapped and cheered.
Today, it was spinning wheels. Tomorrow, it would be witches. Cael was dead, but his legacy lived on.
I’d been wrong to believe that things were changing. This animosity was an infection of the heart, but it lived in the blood and bones—nearly impossible to eradicate, because it could lie dormant for years, just waiting for the right set of conditions to come roaring back. First as fear, then as fury, and finally a full-scale epidemic of hatred.
Despite the surging heat from the bonfire, I still felt cold.
* * *
After escaping the tumult in the village, I was lucky my cloaking spell held until I made it all the way to Kellan’s chambers inside the manor. Even with my clumsy, ice-cold fingers, I was able to start a fire in his bedroom grate. When enough warmth had returned to my numb extremities, I stripped off my wet nightgown and tossed it into the fire, which hissed and spat angrily but slowly accepted the offering.
My satchel hadn’t been moved since I’d left it next to Kellan’s bed along with my discarded clothes. I had dressed with a fervent prayer of thanks to the Empyrea that I’d left them behind yesterday; I was never more grateful for the worn-in comfort of breeches and blouse than in that moment.
