“What’s going on?” Greg slung the sword across his back and opened the door.
A few people passed in front of his door, craning their necks and murmuring, an air of surprise and disbelief in their expressions.
With his usual authoritative way, Ashby grabbed someone by the arm and asked, “What is this all about?”
“It’s Finley. They’re saying she’s come out of her cocoon already!”
Ashby let the guy go and exchanged a heavy glance with Greg.
“Oh, shit! Poor girl,” Perry exclaimed behind them. He held both hands up and waved them repeatedly as if fending something off. “I don’t want to see that.”
Ashby went pale and pressed a hand to his stomach as if he was about to be sick. One day was not enough time for a proper metamorphosis. The changes required at least two weeks. Something had gone wrong for Finley and, whether she was still alive or not, it wouldn’t be pretty.
“Hey,” Greg pressed a hand to the crook of Ashby’s elbow. “Are you okay?”
He had stepped out of the room and was looking down the hall at the retreating rubberneckers.
Perry pushed past Greg and joined Ashby. “What’s the matter?”
“She didn’t deserve that,” Ashby said.
“No one does, mate.”
“She was a nice girl. What if we . . . ?”
“What if we what?” Perry asked.
“We upset her. Maybe the stress—”
“Oh, crap!” A thought occurred to Greg. “What if she’s . . . fine.”
He had no idea what fine could mean for someone whose metamorphosis had failed, but what if she could still remember what happened and told everyone about their plan.
“What if she . . .” But he didn’t finish. Instead, he rushed down the hall and followed the line of people toward Finley’s room.
He pushed his way past the mass of bodies that crowded the narrow hall. He ignored their protests and kept at it until he reached the door and heard Mirante ordering everyone to clear out.
“There’s nothing here to see. Everyone out!” she growled.
People protested in quiet mumbles and reluctantly started to back out of the room.
“She looks all in one piece,” someone murmured in awe.
“How is that possible?”
“How long was she in stasis?”
“Hardly twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah, no more than that.”
When everyone had walked past Greg, he swallowed and took a quiet step into the room. He peeked around the corner and saw Finley on the bed, her arms around her chest, holding tightly to a white sheet. Her shoulders were bare, and her hair matted and stuck to her head in clumps. She was staring wide-eyed at her aunt, more scared than anyone Greg had ever seen. Other than that, though, she seemed to have stretched to proper Morphid height, her features sharp and beautiful in every respect.
He shook his head in awe. Just then, Ashby and Perry arrived, stopping at the threshold, question marks stamped on their faces. Greg held up a hand, prompting them to stay back.
“How do you feel?” Mirante asked in a gentle tone that sounded foreign coming from her. She was sitting on the bed, holding Finley’s hand, her back to Greg. Portos stood on the other side, a hand absently rubbing his chin.
Finley cleared her throat and looked from Mirante to the old Sorcerer. Greg was reminded of the disoriented feeling, the clumsiness of his limbs, the sluggishness of his thoughts right after he morphed. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, not even after a normal metamorphosis. There was no telling how Finley felt.
The girl shook her head and pressed a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know,” she croaked.
“Amazing!” Portos murmured. “I’ve never seen or heard of such a thing.”
Finley looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Well—”
“He means,” Mirante interrupted, raising her voice in irritation, “your metamorphosis was a bit out of the ordinary, a bit too fast. But everything seems fine. You feel alright, don’t you?”
“I . . . I guess.” She stared at her hands, wiggled her toes under the sheet. “I look so . . . big.”
“That’s perfectly normal, dear.” Mirante smoothed her hair back.
Abruptly, her gaze flicked back to her aunt. “What about my mark? What is it?”
“You haven’t gone through the last stage yet. But we’ll know soon.”
Finley’s chest shook with a sob. She pressed her hands to her face.
“What? You’re not crying, are you?” Mirante asked.
“I thought the day would never come,” she said, her voice wavering. “I thought I would be forever Casteless.”
With a jerk, she peeled her hands off her face. “What if this is it?” she demanded. First her eyes settled on her aunt but, almost immediately, they darted toward Greg who was peering from behind the wall.
“You!” she exclaimed.
“Shit!” Greg cursed under his breath. He pulled back, but it was too late. Finley would spill the beans and their plan would go down the shitter.
Perry lifted his hands in question. Greg shook his head and cursed again.
“What are you three doing there?” Mirante had come around the corner. “I thought I asked everyone to leave.”
“Um, we were just wondering how Finley is doing,” Ashby said, stepping into the room and waving at the girl.
“Hello.” He did a double take, his black eyes opening as wide as quarters.
Greg might have warned him to close his mouth before he caught a fly, but there was no time for that. He stepped to Ashby’s side.
“Yeah, we were—” Greg started.
“These three . . .” Finley interrupted.
Greg continued, talking over her. “. . . worried since her stasis was so short. Less than twenty-four hours. Phew, that’s crazy.”
“ . . . were thinking of—” Finley stopped abruptly. “What?!” she turned to her aunt. “What is he talking about?” The question was shrill. Panicked.
Mirante practically barked at Greg. “Did you have to mention that?”
Portos shook his head and sighed. “Not the smartest thing to bring up at the moment, kid.”
Greg gave him a “what the heck?” look. The Sorcerer himself had been about to do the same just a few minutes ago before Mirante interrupted him.
Finley clutched her sheet tighter than before. “Something did go wrong! Oh, Fates, I’m still a failure.”
“We don’t know that,” Mirante said.
The girl started to hyperventilate.
Greg took a step back. “We should get out of here,” he whispered sideways at Ashby, but he was still gawking.
Greg elbowed him, but it seemed to have no effect.
“Calm down, Finley,” Portos said gently. “This half of the metamorphosis went well. There’s no reason to believe the final stage won’t.”
The Sorcerer’s calm tone and demeanor seemed to soothe Finley. She nodded and relaxed her death grip on the sheet. She closed her eyes and after a big inhale opened them. She was staring right at Ashby.
Oh, shit!
She was bent on screwing up their plan, just when they’d gotten what they needed to make it work.
Finley’s eyes filled with resentment. Greg waited for Ashby to speak up, to come up with something else to stall the inevitable, but the princeling had been struck mute by the pretty girl.
“Mirante,” Finley began, “you . . . you should . . .” She coughed and swayed a bit. “I should tell you . . .” But before she could say another word, her eyes rolled into the back of her head and, like a wet rag, she went limp and passed out.
The final stage had claimed her. Only Fate knew what she would morph into. With his luck, she’d become someone who would completely wreck his chances to get to Sam.
They needed to get out of here. Now.
Chapter 40
Ashby
Ashby dragged his feet as he walked down th
e hall, his thoughts stuck in an endless loop that played an image of Finley’s face over and over again.
Mirante had pushed them out of Finley’s room, ordering them to leave her alone and let her rest. “You surely remember how exhausting and disorienting metamorphosis is. The last thing she needs is all of you stressing her out with your concern.”
Finley had changed so much.
Ashby didn’t know why this upset him so. Maybe it was because he’d expected her to stay the same, to never morph. She had been perfect the way she was. Nothing had needed to change.
The nature of this thought made him pause, literally.
“What in bloody hell is wrong with you?” Perry asked, looking back over his shoulder as Ashby trailed behind.
“The pretty girl got his tongue,” Greg said.
Perry looked as confused as Ashby felt. “What?”
“Don’t be daft,” Ashby spat. He pushed past them and headed for his own dilapidated bedroom.
Greg caught up to him. “We have to get out of here before Finley wakes up. The moment Mirante hears what we’re planning, she’ll lock us up.”
“Greg’s right,” Perry said. “And if Finley is on the same accelerated schedule, we may not have long.”
Perry and Greg pushed past the door into Ashby’s room, but before he went in, he caught sight of Mateo—his father. It was becoming easier to think of him that way. He walked toward Ashby and stopped in front of him.
“You shouldn’t worry about her,” Mateo said.
Could he read his mind? Was that how his gift worked?
“I perceive no distress from her. I believe everything is okay, even if it doesn’t seem so.” He patted Ashby’s shoulder and kept walking.
Ashby blinked at the floor, feeling disconcerted but reassured. He started to walk into his room, but Mateo called out.
“Son,” he said, the word making Ashby’s chest feel warm.
He looked at his father over his shoulder.
“Be careful.” Mateo gave him a smile that was sad and strangely resigned.
After returning a quick nod, Ashby pushed past the door to his room and immediately began pacing. He hid his face from Perry and Greg to prevent them from reading his entangled emotions.
“Even if we leave, she’ll still tell them,” Perry said, continuing their previous conversation. “They might still try to stop us.”
“Might,” Greg said.
Ashby knew they should leave, if only to pacify Greg, but he was worried about Finley. What if, in spite of what Mateo had said, there was something wrong with her? What if all the stress they’d caused her had something to do with the anomalies she was experiencing?
And what about that look Mateo had given him? What did it mean?
“C’mon, Ashby. This is no time to hesitate,” Greg pressed.
Tapering his desire to go back to Finley’s room to check on her and deciding to trust Mateo, Ashby nodded. “Go get your things. We leave in ten minutes.”
Greg didn’t hesitate and left without a word.
“I don’t like any of this,” Perry said. “I have a bad feeling.”
“It’s bad all around,” Ashby said. “There is no liking any of it, so just go pack and be ready to leave. We can even go back for Brooke, if you want.”
That seemed to clear all of Perry’s doubts, and he left without making things harder than they already were.
Ashby shook his head and took a deep breath. This had to be done. There was no other way to save Sam.
Within ten minutes, Greg and Perry returned, packs strapped to their backs. They both seemed readier than Ashby felt. At least they had something, better yet someone, to look forward to.
Finley’s image flashed before his eyes, unbidden. It was ridiculous that his mind would play such a trick on him. He was as good as Casteless, while Finley, just a few rooms down the hall, was going through the last stage of her transformation, getting ready to receive her mandate from Fate, her path to a purpose and, perhaps, even her link to someone to share her life with.
Ashby secured his own backpack and stepped closer to make a circle with Greg and Ashby. The transfer potion was still in their system, and he was glad not to have to take anymore. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the hideous brew.
Perry put his hand out. Greg laid his on top almost immediately. Ashby hesitated for a moment, then lifted his and was about to rest it on top of Greg’s when the bedroom door burst open.
They froze and stared open-mouthed at the intruder.
Finley stood in the threshold, panting, a long, bare leg sticking out from under her sheet-dress.
“What the . . . ?!” Greg murmured. “She couldn’t have . . .”
“Stop!” she croaked. “Don’t you dare go anywhere!”
Chapter 41
Veridan
Just as he’d expected, it took Veridan two hours to walk to Alas. He had climbed over rocks and fallen trees, had squeezed through thorny bushes, damaging his pants further, had developed a blister on his small, right toe. But he had endured, maintaining a steady pace that kept his heart beating at an uncomfortable rate.
Now he was here, standing at the edge of where the trees and bushes stopped, Morphid civilization enticing him and making his heart beat faster than the brisk walk had.
Forcing himself to pause and calm his idiotic giddiness, Veridan dusted his suit, then removed his shoe and used a bit of magic to heal the bothersome blister and clean his clothes. He wasn’t going to limp into the city or look less than presentable.
He wished for a glimpse of the clothing worn by the city residents, but his suit would have to do. He was presentable in any case. He always made sure of that.
Veridan pulled on his sleeves, adjusting them, thankful for the cool air that had kept perspiration to a minimum. He ran a hand over his hair to slick it back, then took his first step onto one of Alas’s cobbled streets.
Small houses lined the road, their walls smooth and clean, warm light shining from their windows. The general feeling he got was peaceful, organized, clean—though no people were in sight. Gas lamps illuminated every corner.
He resisted the urge to peek through a window and get a glimpse of someone other, someone better, than the Casteless man he’d seen by the cliff side.
Veridan pressed forward, moving toward the palace he’d seen, the jewel in the center of the city.
Gradually the houses began to change, getting bigger and more ornate. At a four-way intersection, he stopped and considered whether to turn or keep going straight. A faint sound—like that of a group of people—coming from his left helped him decide.
He kept a hand on his amulet as he went. Someone turned the corner ahead of him. Veridan caught a quick glimpse of the man as he passed under the gas lamp. He was undoubtedly a Morphid, tall and proud—a fine specimen, unlike the Casteless man. He had not noticed Veridan yet and was looking at the ground, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Veridan gave a nod of satisfaction and kept moving in the man’s direction. He noted the trousers stuffed into tall boots, the loose shirt tucked in neatly, though rolled to the elbows. He checked for weapons, but there were none in sight.
When he was about twenty paces away, the man finally lifted his gaze. His dark eyes widened, and he abruptly jumped off the sidewalk and onto the street.
Veridan tightened his grip on the amulet, an incantation on the tip of his tongue.
“Your Eminence,” the man said, his head bowed. “Apologies! I didn’t see you.”
Stunned, Veridan stood there, not knowing what to say or do. The man didn’t look up or move. His hands were limp at his sides, his entire body screaming I’m not a threat.
Questions multiplied exponentially in Veridan’s mind, but moving along seemed the most sensible thing to do. Given the level of respect the man was professing, it was safe to assume indifference was the appropriate response.
Reluctantly, Veridan kept moving, throwing backward glances. T
he man didn’t move or change his demeanor until Veridan reached the corner, then he hopped back onto the sidewalk and disappeared out of sight at a hurried pace.
Following the sound of people to the next street, Veridan found himself on a busy street, illuminated more brightly than all the others. Judging by the varied signs over the buildings, this had to be the night or business district.
He paused, watching the scene before him. There were people sitting outside at small tables, sharing drinks and conversation—some on the sidewalks, others on jutting balconies and terraces.
The mood was light, relaxed. The conversation appeared civil, in spite of the presence of drinks and the late hour. The feeling of pride and satisfaction that had sprouted within him at his first sight of the city redoubled
No one noticed him as he stood there, away from the gaslamp, back pressed to the wall. He read the signs with ease, even though they were not written in English or any other language he’d ever seen.
It was fascinating and it meant that what he’d read in his grandfather’s texts was true. There was magic in the land, not only in the people.
Companions’ Oasis appeared to be an idyllic place for couples to dine.
The Actuary suggested a boring place that the likes of Council Member Dabworth would enjoy.
Brews & Amulets raised Veridan’s curiosity into the red zone—though the place appeared closed at the moment.
The Hungry Moth seemed to be some sort of tavern and, after examining all the other places in the block, he decided he would head there.
With a deep inhale and a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach, Veridan stepped away from the wall and walked toward the tavern, his head held high.
He managed a few paces unnoticed, but soon a couple spotted him. They had been walking arm-in-arm, but promptly detached from each other and stepped aside to clear the sidewalk, giving him space and acquiring the same deferential pose as the other stranger.
Less surprised but equally puzzled, he walked on, wondering if his attire had anything to do with their attitude. They could clearly tell he was a foreigner, and that might be the way the Alas’s citizens made visitors feel, if not at ease, at least safe from harm.
Weaver Page 18