Page 14

Chapter 12

Morgana

S olari . My whole body rejects the word. I shake my head so hard the world spins. I throw my hands out to keep from falling but quickly drop them when it looks like he’s going to touch me.

“No, you’re wrong.” He has to be. Of everything else that’s happened to me in the last few days, this would be the worst.

Solari are heretics—they gain their power by stealing celestial magic from the gods. They reveal their blasphemy by wielding the powers of the stars and planets, powers that no mortal should hold. Everyone in Trova knows that.

Leon fixes me with a hard stare.

“Can you think of a better reason to keep you a secret? How would the king and queen explain it if their baby had powers their church says are sinful?”

“I just told you—no one knew I had any magic at all.”

But even as I say it, I think back to the night I killed Bede. I remember Etusca’s reaction when she first saw the body, and after, when I tried to talk to her about my magic. Was she actually shocked that I had power, or was she worried about something else?

“Celestial magic is very rare, but it’s not prohibited in Filusia like it is here in Trova,” Leon says. His voice is low and even, like someone trying not to startle a wild animal. “I’ve seen it conjured before—and its light is unmistakable. It doesn’t look a thing like terrial fire-magic. You’re harnessing the power of the sun. That’s why it glows gold and appears in rays, rather than flames.”

I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. I hadn’t seen what the magic looked like when I killed Bede, but today there were definitely beams of light.

But if my power is celestial…have I been lied to my whole life?

I turn away, unable to look either of the fae in the eye. I need space to think—to work through what Leon’s saying. Could he be lying? But why? There are too many variables, and I can’t manage to stack them together in my head like I usually do. If this is a chess match, then I can’t win if I can’t anticipate my opponent’s moves. Thankfully, I feel a little better now that I’ve released some of my pent-up magic, but I still don’t feel well. The headache is still there, and it’s a struggle to think past it. The only solid thing I have to cling to is the story everyone told me the last twenty-one years.

“The whole reason they sent me there was because I was born without magic—it made me too vulnerable,” I say, trying to sound more certain than I feel. “I was sent to Gallawing as a baby because that’s where I’d be safest.”

Leon talks to my back, unmoved by my claim.

“And how would your parents be so sure you didn’t have magic when you were born? Don’t most human children have to wait a few years for their powers to show?”

I don’t have a response for that one. It’s true that the first act of terrial magic usually happens around age five, though there are exceptions. I never bothered to wonder what happened if your magic wasn’t terrial. Instead, I’d assumed my parents were curious about my magic when I was born. That they’d maybe had a dryad perform a viatic spell to try to predict what sort of terrial power I’d have, and that was when they discovered my lack of power.

But if there was a spell, how could it have missed that I actually do have power?

It couldn’t. So whatever test they did showed them you had the wrong kind of power.

The voice in my head whispers what I don’t want to hear, leading me to a much darker place—a dangerous alleyway full of shadows. I don’t know if I’m ready to walk down it.

Alastor clears his throat, and I turn back to the fae at last.

“As dramatic as this all is,” he says, “we should get going. We’re still not that far from the trading post, and those cretins might have friends who’ll come looking for them. I’m guessing we don’t want anyone to guess that Her Highness was connected to…this.” He points to the massacred trees.

Leon nods. “My horse is by the wagon.”

“And mine is here…somewhere,” Alastor sniffs, peering through the trees. “It bolted the moment Ralus over here did her thing.”

He means me. Ralus is the king of the gods, protector of the sun, and I seem to have his magic. I wasn’t brought up to be religious the way my friends from the village were. In Gallawing, the only one who cared deeply about faith was Etusca, and she had her dryad ways, which had next to nothing in common with the practices of the Temple of Ethira. I heard about the Temple’s rituals from Tira, but I never felt the need to follow them myself.

But still, I was taught enough to accept what most do: that all our magic is a gift from the divine beings. Except celestial magic, of course.

I know I didn’t steal my power, and even if I have no idea where it came from, I don’t see why it couldn’t have come to me like everyone else’s magic does.

But if Ralus is responsible for this, it doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels more like a curse.

This time I hardly notice the passing hours as we ride late into the night, my mind too busy turning over the pieces of everything I thought I knew. Somehow, I have to try to put those pieces back together in a way that makes sense. It doesn’t help that the headache has gotten worse. By now I’m struggling to remember a time when my body didn’t hurt.

When we eventually stop to make camp, I’ve reached a decision. The thousands of questions I have outweigh my wariness of the fae. I need to know what’s going on more than I need to be cautious right now.

“Here.” I stand over Leon where he and Alastor are sitting by the campfire, handing over the vial with the last drops of the crimson potion.

“Your medicine?” The fae prince flicks his gray eyes from my hand to my face.

“I’ve taken that potion every day of my life, since I can remember. Do you know what it does?”

The fae prince uncorks the top and sniffs, then passes it to Alastor, who also looks it over. But he shakes his head.

“I don’t,” Leon says, and I believe him. “But I’m no expert on potions. Didn’t your healer ever tell you?”

“Yes. She told me it was to keep me alive—and that it was necessary for me to have a full dose every day. But in the last few months, I’d made a plan to leave. And since I knew I needed the potion, I found a way to take a smaller dose, storing up the rest so I could take it with me. I don’t think it’s an accident that after a few months on a reduced dose, I conjured my first burst of magic.”

I wasn’t sure how to explain that the second burst came so much faster, but maybe it was because the dose I was taking was so much smaller.

He watches me, saying nothing at first. Maybe it’s crazy to be looking for validation from these two—but I can’t stop thinking of the connection between the times when I was taking less medicine and the times when my magic came out. I need someone to tell me that it makes sense—that what I’m thinking, however devastating, is possible.

Alastor is the one who comes out and says it.

“You think the potion has been suppressing your magic?”

“Yes,” I say, waiting for them to contradict me. Wanting them to contradict me, but knowing they probably won’t.

“Do you think that’s all it does?” Leon asks. The vial looks tiny in his fingers, but he handles it nimbly as he turns it over, examining its ruby hue in the firelight.

That’s the question that’s haunting me. Because maybe it’s still true—I’m sick and need the potion to survive. The suppression of my magic could be a side effect. After all, better to be without magic than dead.

But I doubt it. I think my parents set out to hide my power all these years—at any cost. Because they were ashamed of me.

How ridiculous I am. Two dead strangers and I’m still desperate for their approval.

“I don’t know,” I answer Leon. “I don’t know if anything I’ve been told is true.” I’m going to find out, though. That’s something else I’ve decided in these long, soul-searching hours.

“There’s one way to work out that potion’s true purpose.”

Leon tries to hand the vial back to me, but I don’t take it.

“There’s only a tiny amount of it left anyway,” I say. “You keep it, and we’ll see what happens when I don’t take any more.”

Alastor shifts, his eyes wide.

“Er, sorry to be the voice of reason, but we’re not really in the market for a dead princess right now.”

Interesting. His alarm is genuine—most of what Alastor says seems to be unfiltered, in fact. I suppose when you can compel people to tell the truth, lying is kind of pointless. So if he’s sincere, then maybe they really don’t want to kill me after all.

“I could be completely fine,” I say. I’ve been feeling sick, true. But that could be growing pains from my magic emerging. Or perhaps my body’s going through withdrawal from the potion, like a drunk unable to get his daily dose of liquor.

“If it looks like I’m about to die, give me what’s left,” I say, releasing a heavy breath.

I look to the Nightmare Prince, who hasn’t spoken. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I think there’s a hint of approval in his expression.

“Alright,” he says, tucking the vial into his pocket. I watch it disappear, and a lurch of fear grips me. Twenty-one years I’ve depended on that stuff, and now I’m willingly letting the last of it out of my sight, handing it to a fae who a week ago I would’ve called my parents’ murderer.

Now that everything else in my life has been turned upside down, I’m far less certain about that fact. But still, talk about throwing caution to the wind.

The fae let me settle down without further discussion. Alastor offers me food he bought at the trading post, but neither ask me more questions. I think they both realize I need some rest. At least I have my new dress and cloak to keep me warm. It feels like weeks ago that I stood at the dressmaker’s stall. So much has happened since then. The Ana who snuck away, trusting blindly in a stranger, feels totally different from the one who nearly set a forest on fire.

As I sit looking into the fire, I wonder if I could do it again. Cautiously, I search inside myself for that warmth, the ember that flared into a searing heat and blinding rays. But just like before, my efforts are met with nothing. I can’t find wherever my power has gone. Even now, knowing what might have kept it hidden all these years.

I feel a set of eyes turn in my direction, and I see Leon watching me. I think he knows what I’m trying to do, and I feel myself flush, though I don’t know why I’d be embarrassed. Still, his gaze elicits a different kind of heat. I think about his hands on me in the forest, the way they held me, solid and immoveable in a spinning world.

I wish to feel that same sense of security as I lie down to sleep, but the gods don’t grant me my wish.

Instead, my head continues to pound, keeping me awake, tossing and turning long after the fire has died out. My neck is damp with a cold sweat, and when I close my eyes, swirls of color dance behind them.

And then the nightmares start.

Bede’s corpse pins me down as I choke for air.

My parents’ bodies lie together in their bed, drenched in blood.

A hooded figure stands over me in the palace, a knife in his hand.

The images spin before me, one after another, and nothing I do can block them out. When I try to open my mouth to scream, it stays clamped shut. With no other way out, I run.

I turn from the images, looking to get away from this parade of death. But I only find myself in a new scene: Me, on the dais in Elmere palace, surrounded by the members of my court. Only this time I’m bound, my hands in shackles, and the palace cleric Nunias stands beside me. His crimson robes swirl around him as he raises the sword in his hand.

“Morgana Angevire, you are charged with crimes against the gods,” he intones.

No.

I struggle against my chains, but my magic can’t help me now. Nothing can.

No!

I’m innocent—why can’t they see that? I could no more steal a god’s power than I could kill one. And yet I know the holy man is preparing to execute me.

In the crowd, my aunt Oclanna weeps into her husband’s shoulder. And beside her…

A man with a face as perfect as a statue, gray eyes meeting mine.

“Wake up, Ana,” he says.

I frown. What does he mean?

“You don’t have to be here.”

The edge of my fear dulls. The man is right.

Just like that, the crowd vanishes, then the cleric, and finally the dais, until I’m left in darkness. Voices drift to me from far away.

“ I’ve calmed her mind, but she won’t wake up fully. The fever is too strong. ”

“ Don’t you think we should give her the potion? What if she’s dying? ”

“ No, not yet. She can fight this. ”

“ Leon… ”

“ She’s not dying, Alastor. I won’t allow it. ”

I’m vaguely aware of motion beneath me and cool air on my face. Then the bracing wind is gone, replaced by a wonderful warmth, and all is still and calm.

Maybe this is what it feels like to pass out of life and into the eternal realm. I wonder if I’ll meet my parents there.

But I can’t be dying. That voice said I wasn’t, and for reasons I can’t name, I trust it.

I do the only thing I can think of and let the warmth drag me deeper into the darkness.