The Rise of Magicks (Chronicles of The One)

by Nora Roberts

  Now Fred’s wings fanned out, sparkled. “I can’t wait!”

  “Let’s get some news for New Hope while we do,” Arlys suggested. “How about we take a little stroll around Midtown, Fred?”

  “Colin can take you—secured areas only.”

  “Great, you can be our first interview,” Arlys told Colin. “Go on, Fred, I’ll catch up.”

  “I really like your arm.” Fred took his leathered hand, beamed up at him. “It’s super cool. I bet the girls think it’s sexy.”

  That got a grin. “Now that you mention it,” he said as they walked out.

  “Fallon, I just wanted a minute. I wanted to say that even after all this time, all that’s happened, there’s so much about magick that baffles me.” Watching Fallon, Arlys ran her fingers over the anchor desk. “But something I know, absolutely, right down to the bone? What happened here mattered. It matters that of all of New York, you chose this place. And it means everything, Fallon, just everything to know it mattered.”

  She had to pause, gather herself as tears spilled. “When I sit at this desk again, tell whoever can hear or see that the light is back in New York, it’ll close that circle for me. I know that doesn’t end it, but it’ll close that circle, and I know, absolutely, right down to the bone, that matters, too.”

  Arlys let out a breath, swiped the tears away. “Now I’m going to do something I never thought I’d do again. I’m going to walk in New York.”

  “You could stop off in the triage on the first floor. My mother should be there. I think she’d like to take that walk with you and Fred.”

  “I’ll do that.” She walked over, embraced Fallon. “It all matters.”

  Alone, Fallon went back to her maps. She had a plan, needed to refine it. And help close that circle.

  Surreal, Lana thought, as she walked down Fifth Avenue with Fred and Arlys. One building rubble, the next soot-streaked, graffitiscrawled, but standing. Who chose, she wondered, what would stand, what would fall?

  The rising temperatures and stiff winds of March shifted and slowly melted the high hills of snow, and lethally long icicles dripped and shrunk as they jabbed down from eaves. Sentries patrolled, the occasional support troop rode by on horseback or on electric scooters. Some carted wagons of supplies that rumbled and bounced, but in this sector, won back and held by LFL forces, along the avenue once thick with traffic and tourists, the voices of three women rang clear as church bells.

  She could smell the smoke from distant fires, hear the echoing rat-a-tat of gunfire from the north, the sudden blast of light from a bolt streaking across the sky.

  And thought of the scent of roasted chestnuts, the blare of horns, the colorful displays in shop windows.

  The sea of people, moving, moving, moving along the sidewalks, so many busy places to go.

  “I bought my winter coat there.” Fred pointed to a hulled-out building across Fifth. “They always had good sales,” she remembered. “And there was this guy who sold fake cashmere scarves on the sidewalk right down there. I got one to go with the coat. Ten bucks.”

  “I shopped there, too,” Arlys remembered. “I’d usually head downstairs and get a latte from the Starbucks after. And I treated myself to an outrageously expensive pair of over-the-knee suede boots at Saks that last Christmas.”

  She turned, studied what had been a Fifth Avenue landmark. War had sheared off the top floors, shattered the windows. Oddly, a couple of naked mannequins sprawled like the dead behind the broken glass.

  “I hope some resistance fighter looted my apartment and got them, and everything else.”

  “Where did you shop, Lana?”

  Lana smiled at Fred. “I was a downtown girl. The Barney’s on Seventh practically applauded when I went in. God, I loved to shop—to buy. Shoes, big, big weakness.”

  She looked down at the sturdy, laced leather of the elf-made boots that had served her, and well, for three years.

  “Oh well.”

  “Do you miss it?” Fred asked. “I sort of miss shopping—the looking and touching and discovery. You don’t think about it really but, seeing all this, it brings it back so I kind of miss it.”

  She hooked her arms through theirs. “We’d have had fun with it, the three of us. Shopping, trying on clothes, stopping for lunch.”

  They watched a scavenging team haul out bags and crates from what had been—if Arlys’s memory served—a Banana Republic.

  “But scavenging’s fun, too,” Fred decided.

  “I’m amazed there’s anything left to scavenge.”

  Because there was, because it seemed there was always something else to find, Lana’s mood lifted. “Well, it is New York.” She gave them each a hip bump. “Let’s go shopping.”

  With her father, Fallon refined her battle plan, then called in her available commanders. After more than an hour’s debate, she sent them back to prepare their troops.

  Will stopped, laid a hand on her shoulder as he studied her floating map. “Basically the same tactics as Arlington.”

  “It worked.”

  “Damn straight. Well, I’m going to find my wife before I head back.”

  “She’s with mine,” Simon told them. “Give me a minute and I’ll go with you.” He turned first, pressed a kiss to Fallon’s forehead.

  “What’s that for?”

  “We’ll say luck.”

  Reaching out, she gripped his hand. “Are the numbers right?”

  “As they’ll ever be. We’ll get the word out. Buy you a drink later? It’s tradition. A drink before the war.” He glanced at Duncan. “You, too.”

  “Sure.” Duncan waited until Simon walked out. “He’s warming up to me.”

  “He’s always been warm toward you.”

  “Warmer before I got naked with his daughter. But he’s warming up again. After the drink, let’s have another tradition and get naked before the war.”

  “I’m for that. It’s all in, Duncan.”

  “And it’ll be all in and done. It’s the right move, the right time. We’re ready.” He gave her a quick yank, took her mouth, took them both away for just a moment. “More of that later.”

  Alone, she walked back to the map. She expected she’d have another heated argument with Colin, but she would keep him solidly on support on this one. She had additional fighters with the resistance—undisciplined for the most part, but fierce.

  “Hey.”

  She glanced over. “Mick.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. We had a little distraction.”

  Since mud and blood streaked his face, his clothes, she doubted it had been little or merely a distraction. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nah.” He swiped the back of his hand over his face. “Some DU thought they could push us out of Chelsea—your mom’s old neighborhood, right? We thought different. Got an assist from a small band of resistance, and tamped it down. But I couldn’t get here for the briefing.”

  He wandered in, his forehead creasing as he looked at the map. “Is that my battalion?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When do we strike?”

  “Daybreak. Let me run it through.”

  While she did, he pulled a pouch of sunflower seeds from his pocket—offered her some, munched.

  “You’ve got Poe leading Colin’s troops.”

  “Colin’s not cleared for combat.”

  “He’s gonna be pissed. You know he’s working on getting a tat on the arm—after we hoist the banner here. That’s not going to screw up the magicks, is it?”

  “It’s the same as his own skin now. It is his skin now, so no.”

  “Cool enough. Shit, almost forgot. I brought one of the resistance guys back with me. He wanted to check, see if he can find his daughter. He got her out awhile back with directions to New Hope.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Funny name. I’m not sure—”

  “Marichu.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I told him somebody around here pr
obably had records, or could find out.”

  “I know her. She’s here.” Gesturing for him to follow, she started out. “What’s his name?”

  “Jon—nice and easy to remember. I never figured she’d be here. He said she’s sixteen.”

  “She says seventeen now, but either way young. And persuasive.” She found an elf runner, gave him instructions. “Let’s find Jon.”

  They took the stairway. They had the elevators working on magickal power, but Fallon found them too confining and slow.

  “We keep records in an office on the main floor. Support staff are trying to keep it updated. Rotating troops in and out, wounded, casualties. How’s your father? And Minh?”

  “Dad’s good. Minh took a hit—nothing serious,” Mick said quickly. “Just some shrapnel in the leg. He’ll be up and running for tomorrow.”

  “Good to hear.” She flicked him a glance. “We’re okay, right? You and me?”

  “Yeah.” After only the briefest hesitation, he gave her an elbow poke. “It’s hard to think of anything but the next fight when you’re in the thick of it like this for weeks. Makes you realize . . . stuff. I’ll be glad to get back to The Beach. Man, New York’s just too closed in and covered with concrete or whatever. How the hell did anyone live here?”

  “Millions did.”

  “Count me out. But that doesn’t mean the assholes can have it. We’re going all the way down?”

  “That’s right.”

  He grinned. “Race ya.”

  For a precious few minutes, she was back in the woods, in their faerie glade, in the youth, racing Mick to a finish line. When he edged her out, she shook her head and laughed. “You had a head start.”

  “Blew you away.” He pulled open the door.

  In one section of the gilded lobby, medicals treated wounded. In another, support staff issued new supplies when needed. On a higher floor, a commissary had been converted to a mess hall to cook for the medicals, the wounded, to prepare the MREs.

  She started to direct Mick toward the back when he called out. “Hey, Jon! That’s him.”

  Fallon saw the man—black beard with a sprinkle of gray, tired eyes, worn and muddied boots—move toward them. He had a limp, a slight one, and a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “They’re checking.” His voice, gruff, grave, held the fatigue she saw in his eyes. “Said it would take awhile and I could get some of the meal packs for my people.”

  “We’re fighting the same fight,” Mick said cheerfully. “This is Fallon.”

  “Fallon Swift.” Jon scrubbed his hands on the thighs of his pants before offering it. “It’s great to meet you. We never lost hope, but there were days, and nights, when it was hard to hold on to it. My girl—”

  “Marichu,” she said. “She reached us.”

  He closed his eyes, then pressed his fingers to them. “Thank God. Thank God. I had to get her out, make her go. I didn’t see any other way to— She’s okay?”

  “She’s . . . fast,” Fallon decided as Marichu streaked through the main doors. “See for yourself.”

  “Dad.” Colorful hair flying, she all but leaped over the marble floor.

  On a choked sound, Jon grabbed her up. All the strain in his face just melted away.

  “Let’s give them some room,” Fallon murmured.

  Mick stepped back, but watched the reunion, draped an arm over Fallon’s shoulders. “That’s what it’s about. That’s the reason.”

  “Yes.” Love, she thought, bright as the sun. And friendship. She circled Mick’s waist with her arm. True as the heart.

  That night she felt both lying in Duncan’s arms, and when they rose, vowed to take that—the reason—into battle.

  Power pulsed through her, around her, in those hushed moments before light broke the dark. She saw it in her mind’s eye, the troops poised, positioned strategically around Central Park. The warriors crouched in other parts of the city, ready to block, to cut down any who tried to break through the lines.

  They held, the men, women, witches, warriors, elves, faeries, shifters, all who’d fought for weeks for a city smothered in black magicks. All who’d fought to bring the light back.

  Like the statue of Prometheus, she thought, this city could, and would, shine again.

  As the light blinked through the haze in the east, through the towers that stood even after two decades of war, she drew her sword, set it to flame.

  Saw the answering flame of Duncan’s, the tipped fire of Tonia’s arrow, the surge of light from every direction. At that signal, she pointed her sword east, pulled light from the burgeoning sun.

  Day burst like a bomb.

  And they charged.

  They rooted the enemy from burrows, flushed them from trees, drove them in so her northern troops broke through to take more ground.

  Swords slashed, magicks clashed over ground, melting snow turned into a bog that sucked greedily at boot and hoof.

  PWs who hadn’t escaped the city, who she knew were now used as DU fodder, ran in panic to be attacked by both sides. Taibhse swooped, tore strips from a panther shifter as Faol Ban joined to fight off a pack of wolf shifters. Through the scream of crows ripped the screams of men, so the melting snow ran red.

  She took Laoch into a steep climb, rising into wind that whirled with those clashing magicks. She sliced through the wings of a dark faerie, sent her spiraling to the ground. Below she saw the ground shake under a platoon of her men, and hurled fireballs at the clutch of Dark Uncanny who worked to open the earth beneath them.

  She wheeled Laoch in midair, saw that Vivienne’s commander kept his word. His troops surged in from the north, trapping the enemy between walls of warriors.

  Diving east she fought with her father, pumping power and flame against the hail of black lightning. It sizzled to the ground, scorched.

  “Drive them in,” she shouted, ignoring the enemy who fled. They would meet yet another wall in Troy’s battalion.

  “Keep the heat on,” Simon shouted back. “We’ve got this.”

  Trusting he did, she galloped south.

  She joined with Will, then Starr, pushed through to Poe in time to help fight off an attack led by the blur of rushing elves, a rain of arrows. She swept them back, sent them tumbling in a whirlwind.

  “Fast fuckers.” Poe swiped at the mud on his face.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  His breath came fast, but he shook his head, flexed his impressive biceps. “Just the meat.”

  In answer Fallon leaned over, pressed a hand to his arm to close the wound. “Drive them in.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  She raced toward Mick’s troops, and charged a Dark Uncanny as he flashed lightning from his hands. Laoch impaled him on his horn, shook him off.

  “We’ve got some wounded,” he called to her.

  “Medics and reinforcements are on the way.” She pivoted to strike out at the next attacker, then streaked to Tonia. “Mick needs some help.”

  Gripping Fallon’s hand, Tonia swung up with her. “Let’s take a ride.”

  They flew up, circled. Tonia’s arrows flashed down, finding mark after mark. “Like old times,” she said.

  “There, Travis is moving in to back Mick up. Drive them in,” Fallon ordered. “Drive them in.”

  “Meda and her horsemen—women—are sure as hell doing just that. Jesus, Mallick and Duncan have merged, and they’re kicking ass. Drop me off that way. I want in.”

  Tonia leaped down onto an outcropping of rock, arrow already nocked, then flying into the belly of a tiger.

  Through the mud and the blood, the scorching flames, the cutting wind, they fought, pushing, pushing the enemy inward, closing in around them like the walls of a well.

  She saw the spread, the rise of black wings, felt the streak of power slap the air. For a stunned moment she thought: Eric. But she’d buried the ashes of her uncle herself, had salted the earth over them.

  Still, she sent Laoch in pursuit.


  Up, up, high above the city, beyond the crows that screamed, he turned.

  No, not Eric, but every bit as twisted and dark.

  He smiled, lips curving in a face as handsome and smooth as a carved angel’s. She realized almost too late he’d drawn her away, isolated her.

  When he threw the first strike of lightning at her, she blocked it with her shield and pivoted to stream flame from her sword at the attacker who’d swooped in on her flank.

  He swept away the fire as a third charged in.

  She thought of Mallick’s ghosts, wondered why neither of them had thought to practice in midair.

  They combined power, heaved it toward her. She dived, felt the heat of it blow past her—and felt Laoch’s quick start of pain. But he never faltered, streaking up, wheeling as she slashed out, caught a wing, followed through with a gale that tumbled the wounded one into the second.

  As they flailed, she blocked a blow from the first, pushed back.

  They regrouped, the handsome one, the wounded one, a female with dozens of flying black braids. She steadied Laoch for the next attack.

  Duncan’s voice sounded in her head. Make room.

  “No, don’t—”

  But he flashed behind her, sliced his sword so the flame from it lashed out like a whip. It struck the one she’d wounded, seemed to curl around him as he shrieked. The fire simply enfolded him, left a trail of bitter smoke as he fell.

  “Which one do you want?” Duncan asked her.

  “The male. Son of a bitch.”

  She lashed out, again and again. A strike, a block, a sweep of power. He had more than he should—who knew what bargain he’d made with some devil to increase his power.

  “We’re wasting time. Give me your hand,” she ordered.

  “Busy here.”

  “Your hand!”

  She reached back, gripped it. Light sparked from the joining, power meeting, merging. With it, she threw what she had at the dark angel, felt Duncan loose his own.

  That power cut through them like glass. They didn’t shriek. They made no sound at all as they fell.

  “Are you hurt?”