by Lucia Ashta
I let him lead me to the wall and leave me there, propped up next to Mordecai. I followed Mordecai’s troubled gaze, even though I didn’t have to in order to know where it traveled. It trailed Marcelo as he went to his other self and the firedrake. Neither Marcelo’s split nor Sylvia had awakened, even though we’d given them all the time we could.
Every single one of us in that room had the same thought, almost simultaneously: They might never wake up.
Splitting a human being was serious magic, and it posed serious risks. Marcelo had known the possible consequences of his choice much better than I had when he performed the splitting spell on himself. He just hadn’t thought that he’d be in this place now, staring over a half of himself that might never be able to rejoin the rest of him.
I couldn’t help all the questions that assaulted me then: What happened if a split died? What kind of life would the living split lead as half of his former self? Could the part that remained ever regain his strength? Would he live only half as long, his life energy depleted from the outset?
And finally: What would it be like to marry a man who wasn’t the same man I’d chosen to marry? He wasn’t. Not really. What would it be like to be the wife of a shadow of a former man?
Marcelo gazed at his prone, unmoving body on the floor with a similar depth of sadness as I felt. What would it be like to watch yourself die? I wondered. An exercise in futility, Marcelo shook his split, trying to rouse someone that obviously couldn’t be roused. The head of his split rolled from side to side across the floor, picking up centuries worth of filth.
Even though the blobs hadn’t managed to overtake the split fully, they did double the damage because he was only half of a man.
The blobs had fully penetrated Sylvia’s thick, normally impenetrable scales. They weren’t meant to shield against this kind of attack. Darkness as powerful as Count Washur’s soulless magic could penetrate almost anything.
Marcelo placed a hand on Sylvia. His hand rose and fell on her chest, following the weak yet present path of her breath.
When Marcelo stood again, his mouth was set into a hard, grim line. He faced the two limp bodies, and began murmuring. I couldn’t hear what he said. The times when Marcelo performed spells in such a way that I could learn from them was long over, however brief they’d been in the first place. This wasn’t training anymore. We were playing for keeps; the Count certainly was.
Every one of us there that day, even Count Washur’s supposed allies, Winston and Salazar, realized how tenuous of a grasp we held on our life lines. Each one of us there could die before the sun set, and we wouldn’t know when, and we wouldn’t know how.
But our chances weren’t good.
Chapter 34
I discovered yet another terrifying element to the dungeon: There was only one way in, which meant there was only one way out. I supposed that the Count was able to follow our movements no matter where we went in the caste. I felt like the prey in one of Father’s hunts while we snuck up the hewn stairs in a long, snaking line.
We looked like we were sneaking, and we hoped we were, but the odds were that the Count would be waiting to kill us—or something worse—the second we touched foot on the ground floor.
Marcelo, hovering the bodies of his split and Sylvia, went first, with me right behind him, and Mordecai behind me. Winston and Salazar brought up the end of the line. They’d decided to come with us, though they hadn’t made it clear whether they were joining us in our efforts to defeat the Count or just for the free ride out of the dungeon.
I held my head looking forward resolutely, even if all I saw was Marcelo’s back, his shoulders hunched with what must’ve felt like the weight of the world.
The Count’s attack on Irele was still all too vivid in my thoughts. After all, not that much time had elapsed. It had been many weeks, but not enough to erase the memory. The last time I’d seen bodies hanging in the air like this was on the bloody dawn that brought a close to Washur’s attack.
I trained my eyes on Marcelo’s ragged cloak, observing randomly that I’d never seen it so crumpled before, anything to stop myself from thinking about the dead-looking bodies and the sister I’d heard in the dungeon, but who wasn’t there any longer. The only other person who’d been in the dungeon with us, and now wasn’t, was the Count. Thinking of Gertrude at the mercy of the Count’s cruelty was no more of a pleasant thought than the possibility that I might have lost half a husband before I even married him.
I reached out a hand to clutch Marcelo’s cloak, thinking it would be helpful to touch him, to feel anything other than the cold dankness of the walls to accompany my fearful thoughts. But in the end, I grazed the thick, dark fabric and pulled back.
No, there was nothing Marcelo’s comfort could do for me now. The reason I was there was to save Gertrude. I had to train my focus, single-mindedly, on that one fact. It was the only shot I had at getting her out of here alive.
And I wouldn’t let the Count keep my sister.
I moved one foot at a time, climbing steep steps, my eyes trained on Marcelo’s feet while my ears worked to detect any sign of Gertrude’s location. I listened so hard that I began to hear sounds I hadn’t noticed before. And then, out of nowhere, I heard the faintest meow in history. Somewhere still within this castle, was Gertrude.
If I got lucky, maybe I’d save her. And maybe if I got really lucky, I’d save myself too. And then, if fortune was really on my side, maybe Marcelo or Mordecai would transform the sister I loved back into a girl.
My chest heaved in a sigh that I willed to be optimistic, but was merely determined. So far, luck hadn’t been on our side.
Chapter 35
When we reached the top of the stairs, Marcelo hesitated. He peeked one eye around the corner, and then retreated. He peeked again and experimentally thrust a timid hand out into the open space of the castle’s ground floor. When nothing happened, he poked his whole head out, then he motioned for me to follow him quietly, and the entire train of us tiptoed across the wooden floor. We walked so lightly, so frightfully, that the wood absorbed the padded sounds of our footfalls.
We had several rooms to cross to make it to the front entryway, although I was pretty sure we’d pop out any other exit that crossed our path. Things seemed to be going well for us.
However, the silence around us seemed too eerie. We were probably walking into a trap. Still, even though I knew this, and I was pretty certain that everyone else knew it too, we continued to advance toward the door that led to a dragon-filled courtyard.
Any dragon was better than Count Washur. Even Salazar and Winston would agree, their eyes darting nervously and wildly in all directions as they continued to trail us.
There was nothing else for us to do but follow the inevitable flow that led us outside. We made it through one room and the next, in this peculiar train that was united only by its distrust of the castle’s master.
Only one room, a large one, remained between the front door and us. I could see a sliver of the front door. Marcelo glanced back at me and met my eyes. Something passed across them, though he didn’t give me the time to understand what.
Suddenly, Marcelo began to move with urgency. The slow, careful progression across the castle was replaced by a desperate need for every one to be free of danger.
We were so close. But were we close enough? Could we actually make it out the door without encountering the Count? It seemed impossible that he’d let us slip away like this, without further punishment.
We reached the giant front door and piled up impatiently around it. I saw Winston and Salazar dart nervous glances behind them; they knew they wouldn’t be the first ones out the door. Now that they’d apparently decided this was their chance to flee the Count’s influence, they couldn’t flee fast enough.
Neither did I expect to be the first one out the door, even if I’d so remarkably slipped by the dragon in the courtyard when we arrived. But before I knew what was happening, Marcelo pulled the fro
nt door open toward him and shoved me outside.
That flutter of his eyes across my own was the last I’d see of him for some time—however long it was it was much too long.
My skirts had only just cleared the threshold when the door slammed behind me with such violent finality that I understood what had happened. I glimpsed the dragon’s long, scaly tail before whirling back around to face the door I’d just exited.
I didn’t try to open the door. I already knew.
Many moments of stunned silence passed before I saw the door being shaken from the inside. An entire minute ticked by while I watched the door rattle in its frame. Then the ruckus ceased. The door settled into its closed state with stalwart authority. No one would manage to open it now.
My heart fell somewhere around my ankles. Anyone in Washur who had any interest in my well-being was on the other side of that door. And I, the novice, was on the wrong side of it.
A chill swept across my shoulders despite the high sun of noon. Heavily, I spun around to face the dragon, realizing that I probably shouldn’t have turned my back to it.
But at last good fortune was on my side. The dragon was sleeping. His entire body rose and fell with each giant breath. While I watched, glad that at least I wouldn’t have to face a dragon just yet, he began making a soft, pleasant snoring sound like dogs did when a long day was drawing to a close, and they’d been well run, well fed, and well petted, and now lay in front of a warm hearth with the family.
I turned back until I leaned against the door and my lungs heaved with the struggle to take in a serene breath. The door no longer shook or rattled. No one was trying to get to me from the inside anymore.
I was all alone, a witch who didn’t know how to control her powers. I could easily fall into despair, and so I fought it right away, before it had the chance to gain hold.
All right, I thought. I was alone, but I was alive. That was something to hold on to. As far as I knew, my sister and my friends also still lived. There was another positive.
So, what should I do? What was I capable of doing to help my friends? Was there anything I could do from out here?
Despite my best intentions otherwise, my mind began to form words, answers. But they weren’t the answers I was hoping for; they were the answers I’d tried, apparently in vain, to keep from my thoughts. There is nothing you can do. You don’t know how to do any controlled magic. You could just as easily hurt your friends as save them if you let loose any of the powers of the elements. You’re up against a wizard that has lived five centuries more than you, all the time amassing experience and diabolic intentions. What can you do against that?
My back slid against the sanded wood of the door. I slumped to the ground and unfolded my legs out in front of me, defeated.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing that I was able to recall from a book of magic that Count Washur wouldn’t know of a hundred times over. There was no spell or enchantment that I could think of that Marcelo or Mordecai couldn’t also, and likely long before I did.
If I were to do anything at all to help my friends and myself, it would have to come from someplace other than my mind. It would have to come from my heart. No other part of me could speak as clearly. Resigned to finding the answer this way, I closed my eyes.
I didn’t look toward the dragon anymore, following its steady breath to ensure that it still slept. I didn’t feel through my back for the slightest movement that could signal that Marcelo hadn’t given up on getting to me. I didn’t think of Gertrude.
Instead, I closed my eyes restfully, losing count of the minutes. They were floating by like clouds in the sky, when suddenly a vision seized every one of my senses.
Chapter 36
The vision was as vivid as a dream, no different than the ones I’d had in Irele, with colors, sounds, and details. At the start, the setting seemed peaceful. But peace fled the scene rapidly.
Marcelo and Mordecai were in a room that reminded me of the dungeon from which we’d just escaped. Yet, it didn’t look like the dungeon; neither did it smell or sound like it. No, this room was bright and well lit. But it felt like a dungeon.
Despite its light, the room was heavy with the ghosts of unhappy endings roaming between its walls as much as they had in the dungeon deep below the earth.
I never saw Marcelo cry aside from this instance, but I knew his crying was earnest. His shoulders heaved with the weight of his grief. He turned to look at Mordecai, and I watched along with him as Mordecai’s head ripped from his body, and rolled toward Marcelo’s feet.
Marcelo held his feet still, but I, on the other side of a door, snapped my feet up and drew them into my chest, shock muffling the scream that tore through my own body. Mordecai’s head, wide-eyed in well-founded terror, came to a stop when it bumped into Marcelo’s feet.
Then came the laughter I had originally expected from the room. Yet it was more terrifying even than Mordecai’s disembodied head. The laughter grated against every sense of well-being I held dear, threatening to shatter it as easily as it would hope—if anyone dared to have it.
I followed Marcelo’s gaze upward. The Count. It could have been no one else. His eyes were as red as Sylvia’s, but they lacked the kindness she possessed even amid her great power. The undead wizard threw his head back in laughter so cruel that it sounded exactly like a cackle.
Then, the Count’s eyes snapped to me. I suddenly discovered myself in the brightly lit room, sitting in front of Marcelo.
When the Count opened his mouth, I knew it was to speak to me. I tried to shut my ears. Defying my will to silence them, his words reached me anyway.
“Clara. Clara. Clara.”
I couldn’t bear it.
“Clara. Clara. Clara. I have your sister, and I’ll kill her before you get to me.” The Count inserted himself into a casual sing-songy tune Gertrude and I had often shared.
“Clara. Clara. Clara. I’ll spare your sister only if you trade your life for hers.”
I made my decision in an instant, mostly because there was no real decision to make: I’d trade my life for Gertrude’s. The Count read my answer as it sped across my eyes. The red of his own irises swelled to claim his pupils; he was pleased.
“Come find me, Clara. Gertrude is with me. Come alone and I’ll set your sister free.”
Of course I’d come alone. I was alone, with no way to get to anyone willing to help me. The Count had made sure of that.
I took a step toward the Count. But he vanished. I spun, and Marcelo and Mordecai’s parts vanished too. I moved toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows, yet they disappeared as well.
I opened my eyes. The warmth of the early afternoon sun quickly began to dispel the sense of surreality left by the vision. I checked that the dragon still slept.
I prayed that what I’d seen of Marcelo and Mordecai was no more than a future possibility that I could prevent from happening. I didn’t know how my visions worked yet. Was it a definite future? Or was it one of many paths the future could take?
I didn’t stop to think of Mordecai for long, or of what the Count could do to Marcelo or Gertrude. Panic would paralyze me, rendering me useless to interfere with what I hoped was an uncertain fate.
I stood on legs that held me only because the Count had shown me something tangible I could do to save my sister. He offered me a trade: my life for my sister’s. I’d tried to improve on that trade. I planned to get my sister, and also to keep my life. I didn’t know how I’d do it, but I imagined I’d manage it somehow.
I tried to push the front door open one last time. I wasn’t surprised when it still didn’t budge. I didn’t dwell on it, but began to skirt the outer walls of the castle.
There must be another entrance; there probably were several. I’d find one. And then I’d find the room with the big windows, and I’d save Gertrude.
Chapter 37
Now that my vision had given me something to do, I trained my focus on it with the intensity of my love for m
y sister, my fiancé, and my mentor. I didn’t notice much else around me except for the entrance for which I hunted. I didn’t bother to look down to seek confirmation of my vision. I didn’t look to see whether my ring with the dragon and the serpent glowed with the magic of my connection to Marcelo.
Had I looked down even once, maybe I would have realized what was happening. If I’d noticed the band on my ring finger was as cold as inert gold, I might have known that the vision was very much unlike the ones that had gripped me in Irele. I might’ve suspected that the visions weren’t at all what they seemed to be, and I would’ve acted differently.
As it was, I was at the mercy of deceit, driven blindly by love, my inner power forgotten in my haste to save lives that shouldn’t be lost. My ring was still, and the pulsing of the five-petal knot at my heart merged with the beating of an internal organ, and I forgot to feel for it too. Perhaps if I’d reached for the five elements, even for a moment as brief as a caress, they too might have saved me from the Count’s illusions.
When I rounded the castle and discovered another entrance to it along a sidewall, I heard screams, and any chance of noticing the subtle signs of warning flew away. The screams were high-pitched and undecipherable. If the person screaming was trying to communicate something other than pain, he—or she—was unsuccessful. It was impossible to understand anything other than the person’s desperation, and the desperation within the scream infected me.
I flung the door open and didn’t pause before crossing it. I already knew I’d be entering the devil’s den again. What was the point in delaying? Clearly, I didn’t have time to spare. Another shrill scream confirmed the person suffering didn’t either.