by Lucia Ashta
But Brave continued looking at his father, not at Marcelo, as if he hadn’t registered what Marcelo said. Something in Brave’s eyes shifted and I experienced great sadness that a man like Washur could override Brave’s natural goodness to make him something he wasn’t.
My heart spasmed. I let a gasp loose before I could restrain it. Marcelo swiveled to look at me.
“Don’t turn your back on him,” I said so faintly I feared he wouldn’t hear me, but he turned back to face our enemy.
The Count smiled, and I prayed that if I were to die, I’d have time to wash that sight from my thoughts before passing. It was the definition of malice. To Marcelo he said, “You came all this way and now she’s going to die. What a shame.” Then to Brave, “Isn’t that right, Salazar?”
Marcelo was better able to ignore the Count’s taunts than I was. “Brave. Brave! Listen to me.” The better thing would be to have Brave look at him, but he wouldn’t take the risk. The Count looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Another sound of distress floated through the water. I didn’t want to look away from the scene in front of me, but I feared for Grand-mère, Mordecai, and Anna. Mirvela was no less fearsome of a foe than Washur, she was just different. But both would leave us all dead if we gave them the opportunity.
Grand-mère and Mordecai were involved in a twisted game of cat and mouse, where Mirvela was the cat with the mouse in her mouth, and Grand-mère and Mordecai the ones trying to coax the mouse free before she could bite down on it. Every time Grand-mère or Mordecai took a step closer or tried to use magic, Mirvela positioned her hands around Anna’s neck, threatening to draw the life out of her.
I looked to the angelic merqueen behind and to their right. Again, she met my eyes. The smile that lit those tones of magenta and fuchsia in her eyes was enough to warm me, but I didn’t understand it. What was there to smile about? My chest clenched in another smaller spasm as if in agreement. Why wasn’t she doing anything to interfere? Wasn’t what was going on clear enough?
With a pang to my chest that was already pained I realized that maybe it wasn’t clear. For a merqueen who wouldn’t risk erring by choosing the wrong side, maybe we appeared as threatening as Mirvela and the Count.
After all, weren’t Grand-mère and Mordecai threatening Mirvela? Sure, they were doing it to save innocent Anna, but was that obvious to an outsider?
And what of the Count, he’d killed Carlton, though indirectly. He’d killed Carlton because he meant to kill me. Without doubt, the ball of dark magic he hurled at me killed, because we’d all watched as it’d taken the butler’s life.
I’d attacked Washur, but only after he’d tried to kill me.
No, something wasn’t adding up.
And that’s when I realized what it must be. When we’d arrived, Mirvela and Count Washur had been conferring with the queen of this mervillage. They’d spun stories that would skew the reality and make the gentle merqueen sympathetic to their causes. They’d have told her what she needed to hear to stand by with a whole tribe of people and allow the wrong side to win.
“Brave, Brave, come on, Brave,” Marcelo was saying, and I reluctantly turned back toward them. Everywhere there was danger, a precarious balance between life and death. Spells killed in seconds.
Marcelo wouldn’t look away from the Count to make eye contact with Brave, and the Count knew it. I suspected he also realized that without it, Marcelo wouldn’t be able to break the spell the Count had already cast over Brave.
In that short time I’d looked away, Brave had begun to look like the Count’s son again, not in appearance, because Brave looked just like my Marcelo, but in the way that mattered.
Marcelo wouldn’t manage to restore Brave to his free will without giving him his full attention, and if he did that, the Count would kill him. And if he didn’t break the spell over Brave, then he’d have to fight two opponents instead of the one.
My heart spasmed again, but this time it was a different kind of pain, it was the pain that foresaw a loss so deep I wouldn’t consider accepting it. Marcelo loved me for who and what I was, exactly as I was, and that was something that had changed my life forever. I wouldn’t risk losing him.
I couldn’t. The physical pain I was experiencing now in my heart was nothing compared to the intangible grief of emotions—the type that could break you and leave you shattered, in pieces.
I didn’t have the time to spare to do what I already understood I had to do, but I also didn’t have the time not to do it.
Again, I shut the world out. I tuned out Marcelo’s urgent calls to Brave and Grand-mère’s frantic sounds. The enemies that surrounded us, and the impartial merpeople, were all gone.
It was just me and the five elements within me, the way it had to be.
At the beginning and in the end, we were alone, always alone. This life was about how we came to peace with ourselves, not with anything outside of us.
I was in a hurry, and I felt for the five-petal knot right away. It was there, warm, pulsing, gooey, as if it were coated in hot, sticky blood. But it was there. Intact.
The icicle hadn’t pierced the knot. Its strands, the ones that covered that part of my heart, moved out of the way with the grace of a ballerina and reassembled themselves around the icicle, like tree roots that grew around whatever obstacle was in their way.
The icicle remained strong and firm, it hadn’t shattered or cracked as it ripped through me. Not even the blood I realized really existed there, beyond my imagining, had softened or melted it.
And there was the bloody pulp of my heart, beating away despite the icicle that pierced it, trying to prove itself strong enough to survive. Suddenly I realized it wouldn’t survive—I wouldn’t survive—at least not for long. No heart could withstand this for much longer.
But I was a witch, and for once I’d remain calm and drop into my power and start doing some of the wondrous things I understood myself capable of—with control, with true empowerment.
The sounds of fighting rang louder around me, but I continued to tune them out so they were no more than a hum. I was here, right now, within myself, and that’s all I could allow to matter—if I wanted to do anything to help my loved ones and not die right here on the ocean floor without anyone to hold my hand.
The five-petal knot glowed warmly despite the cold of the water. The elements within me lent me their power, and all I had to do was reach out to receive their gift. Water, earth, air, fire, they were the essence of life. They were life and death, blessing and destruction, well-being and disease. It was all about equilibrium. When there was balance, everything blossomed beautifully. When there was any sort of imbalance, nothing worked well until it was righted.
I’d allowed myself to be imbalanced when I feared who and what I was becoming.
Well, that was rubbish. And I was about to prove it.
I didn’t have to do anything to coax the five-petal knot to be receptive to me. It was a great, big beautiful part of me. The elements weren’t outside of me, they were within me, encompassing the whole area within my chest, above my heart and all the other major organs that kept me alive.
Hello elements, I love you. I felt as if I could lose myself to their brilliance forever.
But I wouldn’t. I had loved ones to save.
I’d found the clarity of those last few moments before death. With a burst of alarm, I realized why. I was dying. How long could a woman, witch or otherwise, survive with a big, blasted icicle sticking out of her chest?
Dammit. I’d wasted time.
I reached for the icicle with what I experienced as energetic tentacles, as if I could clasp the part of the icicle within my body with my hands. I grasped the icicle in my energy and extended it down and around my heart.
My heart was still warm and it still beat, but it was slowing down. It was preparing for its last moments. But I wouldn’t break my promise to Marcelo!
I encapsulated my heart and the icicle completely and then I di
dn’t know what I was about to do until I did it. I didn’t draw on the elements in the five-petal knot as I’d done before. No, they were a part of me. As much as blood pumped through my veins (and I aimed to continue this process), the five elements rushed through all parts of me.
And so in the end what I did was simple. I held the vision of my heart healed and whole, of the icicle dissolving into its individual particles. I imagined the specks of the icicle joining the rest of the water element, joining it, leaving behind its harmful manifestation to become the life-giving water once more.
With that achieved, I funneled a great force into the energy that enveloped my heart and the tubes that flowed out from it. I visualized myself sending a great surge of heat and healing into my heart—of magic, my magic—and it worked. It took perhaps an entire minute. In that space of timelessness, I had no way of knowing, but I didn’t mind waiting no matter what was going on around me. It was working, I could tell.
I felt the precise moment when it happened, when my heart resumed its healthy functioning, when my heart was even happier than it’d been before.
And then, without meaning to, I allowed my head to sink into the sand of the ocean floor, and I lost consciousness. To the background sounds of struggle and survival, I lost the ability to hear them.
But I knew it already. I was alive, I was fantastically alive.
Chapter 18
I woke with a start, without any idea of how long I’d been out. I blinked several times, listening intently to the warbled sounds in the water around me.
There were sounds of conflict, I realized with great relief. If there was struggle, then the battle wasn’t over, and I hoped that also meant that everyone I cared about was alive.
I heard Marcelo again calling to Brave, and I pushed up to my elbows. Perhaps I hadn’t lost consciousness for that long if Marcelo was still trying to break the spell Washur had cast over his son.
I followed the sound of his voice and found him there, right where I’d left him, facing off Count Washur. But now Brave was standing next to the pale sorcerer, siding with him. Washur seemed to have effectively overridden Brave’s free will.
My healed heart, beating warmly, ached a little again. I’d grown to care for Brave. If he was now an enemy, whether willing or not, one of us might be forced to hurt him before he could hurt any of us. And anything like that would be a terrible, devastating loss. Count Washur had already robbed far too much from Brave. He shouldn’t be allowed to rob anymore, not a single thing.
Marcelo sank his feet into the ocean floor, squared his shoulders, and prepared to battle the man who’d killed his sister and stolen his nephew.
I sat up, realizing these moments were overflowing with urgency and life-and-death definition. If I was capable of joining the battle, then I had to—no matter what.
Marcelo wouldn’t risk a look behind him, not even to check on me, and I was relieved by it. But I afforded a sliver of time to look toward Grand-mère and Mordecai. There were two of them opposing one dark merwitch, but Mirvela controlled a hostage, so might they need me more than Marcelo did?
Little had changed. Grand-mère and Mordecai still rounded Mirvela, looking for an opening for attack and rescue, and Mirvela still threatened Anna. The standoff would continue, I realized. Until the dynamics changed, Marcelo’s situation was more pressing. Count Washur and now Salazar would attack him at any time, and he was outmatched. I had little idea how formidable of a wizard Salazar might be, but I’d seen enough when he kidnapped me to realize it wasn’t wise to underestimate him.
Count Washur had an agenda with his son, one probably far more complex than we yet realized, but he was a brilliant magician. Even though his magic was dark, it was powerful. If Washur had taught Salazar even a fraction of his own capabilities, then Marcelo was in trouble.
I rose to my feet and tested my steadiness. I didn’t feel as strong as I would have liked, especially considering what I was about to do, but it was far better than dying. It would do.
I sensed a set of eyes on me. Only one being there in the clearing had noticed my progress, and when I sought out those brilliant magenta eyes I registered only pleasant surprise. There was much to this merqueen I didn’t understand. But I didn’t sense a speck of hostility from her. Whatever her ultimate intentions were, she meant me no harm. I hoped that safety extended to my loved ones as well.
Her face was warm and open, but she didn’t smile at me this time. She was going to continue watching me.
I tore my gaze from hers (something difficult to do when it was so mesmerizing) and swam toward Marcelo.
The count noticed me first, I could tell from the wicked smile that curved one side of his thin lips. “Well, well, well. You do surprise.”
Marcelo risked a flicker of a glance at me, thrown rapidly across his shoulder. As fast as he turned toward me, he turned back, but not before I registered shock and relief on his handsome face, the one I’d grown to love.
Washur continued, “The wench has more skills than I gave her credit for. She just looks so... useless and helpless, although seeing her this way—”he trailed icy eyes across my bare body, and I experienced their progress as a cold, ugly wave against my skin—“I see she might have a great many uses, once I dispatch with you and get my hands on her.”
I willed myself not to react to his comments, to his implied nastiness, but my body betrayed me. A full-body shiver began at my shoulders and ran down to my toes.
The Count’s smile widened, and Marcelo glared at him. I could make out his murderous expression even from the side.
Marcelo continued to monitor the Count and Salazar, looking for any subtle movement that might betray a coming spell, as he reached his right hand out to me. He waved it behind him a few times before I stepped forward and took it. I stood even with him, an equal partner in this fight against two, when only one of our opponents deserved whatever they’d force us to parse out.
Just a moment before I’d thought there could be nothing worse than Count Washur’s taunting, malicious smile. But I was wrong.
The Count turned his attention to Marcelo’s left arm, and the glee that visibly erupted across his features made me sick to my stomach. “So my little corporeal manifestations of black magic left their mark on you. I’d hoped they’d kill you and rid me of this headache you’ve become.”
But I could make out the lie in his words. The Count relished toying with his victims and inflicting pain. He didn’t want the dark blobs in Washur Castle to rob him of the opportunity to end us himself.
“But I see they’ve made my job quite easy. You’re weak, Lord Bundry. If your left arm hangs limply at your side like that, then I imagine you can’t use it to cast magic. And we both know the best magic requires either two hands or a whole lot of time and patience, a luxury I’m happy to point out you don’t have.”
That Washur should feel the need to belittle Marcelo made something in me spark—perhaps fire—and I welcomed it.
As if the Count sensed it, he turned to look at me, and for once he kept his mouth, with its ugly words, shut. His icy, pale eyes were sharp, and I had no doubt he was considering me a threat.
Well good. I was one.
But first, I had something to try, and with the Count, it might be my only chance. As he’d proven over and again, he didn’t play fairly.
I denied the Count my eyes, the ones he appeared to seek—to take my measure, no doubt—and swam in the direction opposite Marcelo.
I stared straight into eyes so much like the ones I’d promised to love forever and worked hard to shrug off the differences between Marcelo’s eyes and his nephew’s.
It’s not him, I told myself. It’s the spell. The desire to hurt me in his eyes is Washur’s, not Brave’s.
I willed the strength of my resolve to bore into Salazar’s eyes and retrieve Brave for us. “Brave, this isn’t you—”
“He won’t listen to you. Nothing you say will change things. Salazar is under my control.”
The Count no longer bothered to disguise what he was doing to Brave.
“I don’t care what you say or what you think,” I snapped. “I’m finished with you. I don’t want to hear another word from your mouth. You’re dark and nasty and mean and... despicable.” My mind bubbled over with insults until I stopped myself. “What you do or say won’t affect me any longer. So shut up.”
Even under the circumstances, Mother might’ve been horrified that I’d disrespected a count in such fashion. I was grateful I wasn’t anything like my mother. I’d never told a person to shut up before, not even my sisters when we fought, but it felt good, even if I didn’t expect for a second that the Count would do as I asked.
But the power within me was simmering and it was, perhaps, apparent. Because my request granted me at least a few moments of his silence.
“Brave,” I said, “you aren’t this person he’s tried to make you. Your heart and free will are your own. It doesn’t matter that he’s your father. It doesn’t matter that he’s tried to make you hate and kill... and suffer. You can be a greater man than what he allots for you.” My voice softened. “You are a better man, Brave.”
I wished I could take his hand and stare deeper into his eyes, but I didn’t dare move any closer to him or the Count, whose seething anger I could sense trying to implant its cloying tentacles into me. But they wouldn’t. I flung an angry look at him, and he reacted by withdrawing whatever magic he’d sent my way, trying to sink its hooks into me. But not before I saw real surprise in his features. Washur hadn’t thought I’d be able to feel what he was doing. Since it was invisible to the eyes, he’d no doubt intended to work his punishment for my outspokenness without my notice. By then it would’ve been too late.
“Knock it off,” I growled to him, although he already had.
I brought my attention back to where it was deserved. “Brave, I know you’re still in there. I’m so sorry for what he’s done to you. But you can choose who you’re going to be, despite him. You’re strong enough to shake his hold from you. His magic is strong, Brave, but so is yours. And what’s more important, your heart hasn’t been consumed by darkness; his has. Brave, look at me.”