Magic Breaker Special Release!
Middle-aged women kicking ass, epic fantasy style? Yes, please!
Magic Breaker, book 2 of Keepers of a Broken Land, is now available on my website! In two weeks it’ll be available everywhere else, but first I wanted to host my own little party, right here!
For those of you who purchased it on other sales channels and are trapped waiting, I’ve got a gift for you, too: the first five chapters of Magic Breaker, so you can get some resolution over that TERRIBLE CLIFFHANGER! (You’re welcome!)
If you love this series, please spread the word on your favourite retail sites and social media! Word of mouth makes such a difference, and I appreciate your help in sharing the love. 💖
So grab your copy of Magic Breaker today, and enjoy the first three chapters below!
Yay, new book! 💖📚✨
SPOILERS! IF YOU HAVEN’T READ OATH BREAKER, GO GRAB A COPY AND READ IT, THEN COME BACK!
Chapter 1
The air crackled with Elihor’s magic, strands that Shirina could not see but could sense whipping the wind in a frenzy as Rojon’s magic unleashed. The blade, intended for Cassara, had pierced the apparently still alive Avarielle through.
She thought she’d been dead. Shirina had grieved her. And now, unless she moved quickly, that grief would amplify with missed moments.
Twenty years of preparing for Siabala’s return and Shirina had failed to spot the den of snakes forming right beneath her feet. Her shoulder ached and her heart ached more but, with a groan, she pushed herself up and headed into the torrent of magic.
Elder Tally’s body had satisfyingly been tossed aside, but the old woman struggled up, refusing, or unable, to stay down. At least the nasty wound at her neck blocked her voice, and hopefully her casting.
Shirina ignored her. She knew little of the magic of the heirs of Elihor, but she thought she knew enough. Kale had spoken of it and had died by it.
That I could save you, too, old man.
Him, and the Circle. And her witches, running, powerless, away from the green flames of the rebels, which consumed all in their path.
So many had died. She thought she’d lost Avarielle, and now she actually might.
Shala, loyal to the last, running down corridors, trying to save what had taken years to build…
No. Enough. She’d had enough. She would lose no one else. With or without magic, she would find a way to win this day.
Feet firmly planted on the ground, she fought against the magic slamming into her, a vortex of energy swirling her crimson cloak, stealing her breath. She reached Cassara first, the magical bonds still holding her.
Their eyes met, and nothing needed to be said. She grabbed Avarielle’s shoulder, felt energy coursing from the warrior into her, keeping her standing despite the blood pooling at her feet. Shirina almost slipped in it, using Avarielle like a lever to pull herself forward. The warrior stood as though frozen in place, Elihor’s magic wrapped around her.
Rojon is trying to keep her alive! Freezing her in time. Holding her breath captive, even though her blood still trickled down.
Siabala’s magic would not be undone so easily. Even without the Sight, Shirina could see red strands wrapping around the warrior, one hand holding back her son, the other clutching Graysword’s pommel.
“Rojon.” The winds whipped the name out of Shirina’s mouth. Rojon’s face twisted in agony, fighting against Siabala and bleeding out Elihor’s magic. He would be pulled apart unless he managed to get his magic under control.
Shirina slipped in the blood and almost went down, grabbing Graysword’s pommel, its magic buzzing at her touch, but not hurting her. She pulled herself up using it, hoping she wasn’t pushing it deeper into Avarielle, magic rushing against her skin. The rush turned to blistering heat, but she did not let go until she had a firm hold of Rojon, despite the powers of Elihor pushing her away from him. She grabbed his shoulder, held herself steady.
“Rojon,” she shouted, closer to him. Eyes filled with tears turned to her slowly, red and dark strands of magic coiling around his body. Siabala would not abandon his prey easily. Right now, Shirina just wasn’t certain if that was Rojon, or Avarielle.
They needed to stop the flow of Siabala’s magic, while focusing on the magic that might save them.
“Rina.” His voice echoed in the winds.
“Rojon, listen to me,” she placed her hand on his cheek, willed him to focus on her. “You can save everyone with Elihor’s magic. You need to think of Cassara, your mother, and me. And you need to let go of Graysword.”
His voice like a howl on the winds: “The magic will kill me.”
“I won’t let it,” Shirina said, trying to peer outside the veil of magic but unable to. “I promise I won’t let it.”
Shirina couldn’t find the strands of Graydon’s magic, but she’d created her bracers to filter Elihor’s magic. And, right now, Elihor’s magic was plenty. All she needed to do was filter it and cast a teleportation spell. She had no idea where they were, which would prove dangerous, if not deadly. But the rebel had managed to teleport them both, so it stood to reason she could bring them back.
To Kosel’s Circle. Or perhaps to the Lisal Gardens, where strong magics took root and her witches could help. If they’ve not been destroyed.
No. She flicked the destructive thought away and focused on Rojon.
“Rojon,” Shirina repeated, still connected with his cheek, still looking in his eyes—all black, with sparks of red magic.
You cannot have him, Siabala!
“I can get us out using your magic. But I can’t teleport safely with Siabala’s magic, nor with the magic holding Cassara. You can end both of those.”
“I don’t want to die,” his whispers became the wind. “I don’t want anybody to die.”
“Your mother will if you don’t trust me, Rojon.” Avarielle’s features were taunt, turning a worrying shade of gray. “Let me save her. Let me save you.”
“Mom?” he said, and his magic exploded outward, with such force that his arms were flung at his sides, releasing Graysword. Avarielle collapsed to her knees, as did Cassara, the bonds releasing her, undone by Elihor’s magic. Shirina managed to keep hold of Rojon, standing with him in the circle of magic. But Graysword flickered still within Avarielle’s wound, the magic reacting to her touch, which would undo any attempt at crafting a teleportation spell.
“Cassara!”
“I’m here.”
“I need you to pull Graysword out of Avarielle.” Shirina winced at her own words.
Cassara’s eyes widened, mouth opened as if in protest. Then she seemed to understand, and she nodded, features set in grim determination as she grabbed hold of the sword. The queen’s touch seemed to diffuse its magic, Graydon’s magic silenced, but apparently not destroyed.
There was hope yet, and Shirina clung to it. Moments passed, like an eternity wrapping around them as her muscles strained.
“I have it,” Cassara shouted. “Shirina, if we’re going to save Avarielle, we have to do it now!”
“Hold Avarielle and grab hold of my ankle.” The queen did as instructed, wrapping her arm around Shirina’s ankle as she wrapped her legs around Avarielle, Graysword kept at bay but secure in her other hand.
Shirina focused back on Rojon, his eyes brimming wells of the universe.
“Trust me, Rojon,” she whispered.
And then she willed her bracers open, to welcome the magic of Elihor. He screamed, the magic fighting back, pounding into her bracers, unwilling to be manipulated. She clung to it, forcing it within the metal shells, turning it into strands of magic she understood, and cast a teleportation spell.
The bracers melted under the angered magic, burning her skin so deep she was certain it fused with her bones. She gritted her teeth against the white-hot pain and stench, and focused on her magic, and saving her friends, on the words that needed to be spoken with the right cadence, on holding back the cries of pain that threatened to escape.
All that mattered was her spell. She prayed to Elihor and Graydon that she would not get them all killed as the shimmer of magic blocked her vision, not risking using the Sight to look at Graydon, too focused on getting all of them to safety. Teleporting two additional people would have strained her. Three felt like running through a field of barbwire, every inch of her body screaming in agony.
The scent of roses exploded around her, and Shirina knew she’d reached Lisal Gardens, against all odds. Voices joined hers. Her adepts. Her Circle.
Even though powerless to use their magic, their words helped ground her as she dropped the teleportation spell. Rojon collapsed to his knees. Before his magic completely evaporated, she grabbed more of it, wrists blistering beneath her melted bracers as she turned to Avarielle and pushed healing magic deep within her. The warrior didn’t even shift as Shirina mended arteries and skin, bones and muscles, the wounds deep. Left arm a sea of cracks, blood flowing freely, too quickly.
She couldn’t afford the time needed to focus the spell, pumping as much as she could into the warrior before the magic of Elihor left her, ignoring the pain of her wrists, focusing only on the blood around the warrior’s midsection…
“Shirina,” Cassara said, placing a hand on her shoulder, kneeling on the other side of the warrior. “It’s done.”
Avarielle breathed gently. Her features were set in pain, but she no longer bled. Cassara squeezed Shirina’s upper arm. Nausea crept up her throat, a fever breaking across the back of her neck.
“Let me help you,” the queen said softly, in that voice Shirina had heard Cassara use on the gravely injured.
Shirina tried to speak, but found she couldn’t, the world spinning around her.
“Crimson Circle Elite!” One of her adepts cried out. Tinat. Her youngest adept. She’d come to her as an orphan, willing to work and learn magic. She would make Crimson Circle Elite someday.
Shirina tried to comfort the adept, to tell her she was fine, but lost the thread of thought. Cassara held her tightly as she slipped into darkness, wishing she could pull on magic, but glad she’d made it back here, in the end, to where her Circle had begun.
Chapter 2
Avarielle felt every inch of the blade sliding out of her, though it didn’t burn. It coated her, left a piece of itself behind. Magic writhed within her, like snakes settling in her core, finding her arteries and veins, traveling up them, razor sharp fangs leaving a trail of scars all the way to her heart.
And exploding in agony. Avarielle gasped, thought she heard Cassara say something, but was dragged back under, plunged into the flames growing within, spreading from her heart into her mind.
She fought to swim up, to find the surface again, but her mind shut down, waters turning to angry flames.
Siabala’s Rage.
She was back in the ancient prison, trapped, gasping for air, tortured. Her left arm—which had been broken so often—snapped again, the wounds healed but the scars chiselled on her bones reopening. She fell, again and again, sulfur burning her nostrils, until the floor met her, and always, waiting for her, was Siabala.
She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him.
Deep inside her, where Graysword had claimed her blood.
No. Her son needed her. She pushed against the flames, her bones charred, skin blistering, heart turning to ash.
Always, Siabala stood, waiting. Watching.
You are just an illusion.
She fought back, reached up, felt a hand take hers.
“Hang on, Avarielle.”
Cassara. She was here, with her, keeping her safe. Avarielle found the strength to squeeze the queen’s hand, who held her more tightly in turn. She would not let her go. They would not let each other go. Never.
This is the oath I will follow, she spat in her mind. To protect the descendants of Graydon. To keep Cassara safe.
The voice hissed in answer.
Oath Breaker.
Monster. Siabala was a monster, and she would break her oath to him as often as possible to keep the one that mattered. To keep Cassara and her family safe. To protect Rojon, like he’d protected her.
Pulling on her remaining strength, every inch of her body screaming in agony, she pushed back the shrinking flames, extinguished them, the scars within her hardening. The wound at her core. The magic trapped within.
As she finally drifted into oblivion, she heard the voice, perhaps riding on a memory. Or a nightmare.
Siabala, who haunted her still.
Impressive.
Chapter 3
The beds bookended Rojon’s chair, where he’d taken vigil since regaining consciousness. Shirina’s hands rested over the blanket, wrists bound tightly with bandages. They’d scraped the metal fused to skin off, made sure the pain would not bother her, and that she would sleep. From her relaxed features, Rojon doubted the sorceress felt much of anything.
On the other bed, his mother’s tanned face was ashen, eyes drawn tightly shut, breath ragged. He thought he’d lost her. And now, he might. At least this time, he’d be with her.
His leg twitched nervously beneath him, and he forced himself to relax, for his hands to stay on his thighs and not reach for his mother’s hand. To reach for her would mean reaching for something darker. Deeper. To reach for her would be to reach for Siabala. To reach for Graysword.
He could feel it, the crackle of magic coming from her. Could hear the spark of darkness traveling her veins. He loved her. Fiercely. Always had, from his youngest memories to his most recent ones.
Except now he knew that she’d made a deal with Siabala. She’d run his father through with Graysword. Just like Rojon had done to her. After he believed her dead, lost in a deep forest, never to return. He’d grieved for her, the mother he’d always loved.
Now that she was back, he found that he hated her, too.
She’d been his hero, and a hero to so many others. He’d witnessed how respected she was in Graydon, heard tales of her heroism. She’d always shrugged it off, told him that stuff didn’t matter. That had made her more heroic. Sword-wielder, bow expert, quick footed and assured, and uncaring of what others thought, too.
But he’d seen beneath the veneer of who she was, to the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. The monster. Which she’d made a deal with. The one who’d killed his father. And that she’d failed to destroy, in turn, only killing his body and not his soul.
He didn’t want her to die, yet he wished she’d stayed dead. He could feel it, Siabala’s magic snaking in him, still, though he knew it was no longer there. He’d almost lost to it, and then his mother… She’d stepped in front of him. Used her own body to protect Cassara.
Would she have done the same to save him?
She protected the queen because of an oath she took, but if she already had a blood oath with Siabala… Why had she not wanted him to take the oath to protect the descendants of Graydon, too? She’d said she’d wanted more for him. But she must have known that Siabala would come for him, eventually.
His heart and mind twisted together, coating him with nausea and exhaustion from the magic. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside his mother, to be near her familiar presence in this strange world that he no longer understood. But he wanted to run away from her, too, and never speak to her again.
She ran my father through with Graysword!
The door opened and Cassara slipped in. She checked both sleeping women, then winced as she sat on a beat-up wooden chair at the end of Shirina’s bed.
“How are you feeling?” She asked in a whisper, studying him.
“You knew about my mother’s oath with Siabala?” he asked, voice equally low. He hated knowing the truth. Speaking it, even less so.
“I found out recently, when she finally told us.” She didn’t need to elaborate for him to guess she’d also told Shirina. “She wanted to make sure we kept Graysword from you. I’m sorry we failed you, Rojon.”
“No,” he said, voice harsher than he’d intended, a quick motion of the chin toward his mother. “She failed me.”
“Rojon,” Cassara started, but he stormed off before he could hear what else she had to say. She did not follow him, which was just as well. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Everything he’d known was a lie, and he couldn’t handle the queen’s calm and thoughtful presence. Right now, he wanted to rage.
He pounded down the wooden stairs, away from the guest room, where the healers had clumped their patients. He crossed a library, several adepts wisely moving out of his way, multi-colored cloaks a spattering against filled bookshelves.
The scent of stewing meat teased his stomach to life, growling.
But he wasn’t done storming. He needed to get rid of this anger, this darkness, which choked his throat and crushed his chest.
He turned left, down another wood-panelled corridor with no decorations on the walls, and found a simple wooden door. He pushed it open, his senses slammed with heady perfume in the warmer day. Lavender. Roses. Other tantalizing scents he’d never before encountered.
He’d only seen Massir’s gardens in Graydon, so far, and those were on palace grounds, not in the earth itself.
These… this place made him pause. He stopped dead in his tracks, looked slowly around, each bloom lifting the crushing weight as his breathing returned to normal. Finely woven mesh protected parts of the garden, brick walls crisscrossed to create interest, along with more recent wooden walls holding herb planters and securing tall and ripe purple and red tomatoes. A much earlier crop than in Elihor. Vines covered the brick mansion, making the building appear to be a feature of the gardens, not the other way around.
Pink and purple flowers bloomed along the vines, a variety he wasn’t familiar with. Surrounding the stone mansion were what he guessed to be berry bushes, even if currently no fruit graced the thin branches. He skirted the building, taking different paths which led to mini gardens, demarked by bushes or old, half-crumbled stone walls. Some were all herbs, others all flowers, some vegetables, but most seemed to be a mix. Great trees cast shades in some areas, while sun shone through in others.
Stones had been laid down to create paths, the large slabs surrounded by white-flower-bearing moss. He let his feet follow the feast for his eyes, holding back from touching plants as he circled. A few witches walked by, observing him with curiosity. Most seemed worried but kept working diligently at tending the plants. Gathering crops. Splitting plants and putting them in the ground, an activity too late in the season to do in Elihor. Different plants, different ground, different heartiness.
He wanted to know everything about them. His hands practically twitched with the need to wield something different than a cursed sword. To feel the earth between his fingers, to smell plants blooming around him. To create, instead of destroy.
His mother had run his father through with Graysword.
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
“If you’re just going to wander aimlessly with long soulful looks,” an old woman said, “then at least make yourself useful.”
He turned to her, a woman at least eighty, he guessed. He looked at her with surprise, a simple blue cloak on her, instead of the more advanced orange or crimson cloak.
“What?” Her smile was rueful and unapologetic. “Life isn’t a one destination journey, young man. Now, come on. Help an old woman prune these shrubs before they take over Lisal Gardens.” Another Blue Circle joined them, apparently her sister.
They didn’t ask his name, and he didn’t offer. But he did take the offered shears, took a deep breath of earth and life, and put his hands to work.
Chapter 4
Cassara watched Rojon go as she forced herself not to stop him and remain seated in her chair. She knew him just enough to know he needed space to gather his thoughts. She turned to Shirina.
“I know you’re not sleeping.”
“And how would you know that?” Shirina answered, voice thick with fatigue. Or pain. Cassara took Rojon’s vacated chair at the head of the beds and offered the sorceress some water.
“You could have said something to Rojon. You know him better.”
“You’re much better at that stuff than I am, Cassara.”
“Yes, I definitely did great,” she muttered, putting the cup back on the table between the beds. Shirina’s lips quirked up at Cassara’s words, the amusement vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
“How do you feel?” Cassara asked.
“Like I did something stupid and paid the price,” she answered. Her eyes slid open, barely.
“Your wrists are burned pretty badly, but you’ll recover.”
“No magic here either, then.”
“No,” Cassara answered in a whisper, heart beating faster.
“Avarielle?”
“You healed her enough that she’ll pull through, but she’s still pretty badly off.”
“She’s too stubborn to die. I’ll never think she’s dead again, lest she fool me twice.” Her voice faltered, cracked. “How are you? Your injuries were not fully healed, and you were too stubborn to stay in bed, from what I recall.”
“I’m fine.” Her breath hitched up, betraying her lie.
“I’ll heal you as soon as I can,” the sorceress said, voice drifting.
“I’ll let you rest,” Cassara stood up and headed for the door, not bothering to point out that Shirina couldn’t access her magic.
“Cassara,” Shirina croaked out. Cassara turned, door handle in hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t pull out Altessa, too.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Cassara said, then rallied. “But she’s resourceful, and I’m sure she’s found a way to find safety.”
“Her mother’s daughter,” the sorceress said with a thin smile, before sliding back into sleep.
Cassara’s head spun as she stepped into the hallway, letting the healers back into the room. They’d already tended to her and done what they could, though it felt like a vice squeezed her midsection. She took the stairs, intent on getting some fresh air, for fear her worry might choke her.
She wasn’t sure of anything, at all. Not of her daughter, nor her husband, nor of her kingdom.
The distance between them made her stomach turn and her heart ache. Part of her wished she’d stayed behind, to face whatever they faced. At least Alexavier and Traina were safe in Edoline, with her brother.
But Altessa and Dayshon… She didn’t want to outlive any of her loved ones. Not again. She’d face Siabala without her magic time and time again, if it meant not burying anyone else she loved.
She’d already done enough of that for a lifetime.
Chapter 5
The city held its breath, muted under the attack on its palace, a smothering smoke filtering down from the fires still raging in parts of it, hours after the alarm bells first rang. Great cracks travelled down the length of roads and up buildings, and wells which had been dependent on Circle magic to bring up water, had gone dry. The city cisterns would provide water for at least a few days, as long as they hadn’t been damaged.
I have to find out, Altessa thought, breaking from the rebel to go speak to some nearby guards, mobilized throughout the city. The rebel grabbed her hand and kept her near.
“There are spies everywhere, princess. Trust me.” Sweat lined the rebel’s dark skin, dripping from her chin. She was exhausted, and risked everything to save her. They’d never seen the attack coming. How many spies did Elder Tally have looking for her at this very moment?
“She’ll be looking for you,” the rebel harshly whispered, as though sensing her fear. Altessa had no reason to doubt her, but no reason to really trust her, either. Except that she’d saved her life. That… that would have to do, for now. Right now, she was the one person she was certain wasn’t actively trying to kill her.
Altessa followed the rebel for most of the day, down the streets of her beautiful city, blanketed with fear. They moved cautiously, avoiding large pockets of people, the rebel taking time to rest when the rebel’s spell became too much to hold.
The city bristled the further down they went. Some looked toward the palace, others hid. Some ran, others stood in place, unable to break free of the sight of destruction in the heart of Massir. A reversal of how it had been twenty years ago, when its perimeter had been destroyed, but its palace protected.
Sunset began to cast heavy shadows all around her.
Wearing what she considered her relaxed yellow dress made her stand out like a sore thumb. Even her most casual garment outshone those in the area where they currently moved quickly. Thankfully, they were still under the rebel’s spell, a green mist hiding their presence. Green magic that should never have existed, that had been somehow implanted in the woman now trying to save her. A few times the rebel faltered, exhausted. But she didn’t want to take any more breaks. She just wanted to get to wherever they were going.
Her hand was clammy around Altessa’s, still holding hers, as though the princess’ safety was as important as her own. They stumbled in the lower strata of the city, outside the old wall, but inside the newer one. She’d never been this far down in her own city, this area derelict and full of thieves, according to her maids. Not a place for a princess.
Yet here she was, surrounded by dark shadows cast by the walls buttressing them, the scratches on wood unmistakable as the Elom attack which had ravaged this part of the city. While her grandparents closed the gate leading to the palace, abandoning their people. Saving some. But dooming so many.
The rebel opened a wooden door and slipped into a house, pulling Altessa after her. Only after the door was shut did the green mists slip away. The rebel took a deep breath, leaned against the door, and slowly slid down it.
“Water,” she croaked. Altessa headed for the counter to the side of the small home, quickly found a pitcher filled with stale water. She grabbed a clay bowl from the exposed wooden shelf, the only thing she could see that resembled a cup, and brought it to the rebel.
She took it without question, water dribbling down her chin as she gulped it down. Altessa refilled it, and she downed that one, too.
“Even poor people have cups, your highness,” she said, handing back the bowl.
Altessa flushed. “I chose expediency over propriety,” she bristled, then added in a whisper, “Thank you for saving my life.”
The rebel shook her head and crossed her legs, still leaning against the door.
“It was a stupid thing to do and is probably going to get us both killed.” Her voice was gruff, without care, and Altessa liked the sound of it.
“It was a brave thing to do,” Altessa whispered, slowly sitting on the ground near the small wooden table, so she’d be level with her. “But I must admit that I’m not quite clear on why you saved me. I mean, you’re with them, aren’t you?”
The rebel looked up at her, eyes dark brown, skin only slightly lighter, dark hair in braids. And those eyes pierced her, now, studying her. Deciding if she could trust her. Then a lazy smile spread across her face, though her eyes lost none of their intensity.
“You’re really slumming it, aren’t you? Sitting on the ground in a Scratch home?”
“Scratch?”
“That’s the name of this area, well, what the locals call it. Others call it Bait. Some call it the Sacrifice. I prefer Scratch, myself. Makes it sound more badass.”
“Oh,” was all Altessa could say.
“Want to know why all those names apply?” The grin was still there, frozen on her face. Altessa forced herself to look her in the eye.
“Because my grandparents closed the gates, to save what they could of the city, when the Eloms attacked.”
Anger flashed in the rebel’s eyes.
“When your grandparents murdered so many,” she hissed. Altessa bit her tongue, forcing herself not to say anything. It wouldn’t help, and she was in no position to pick a fight with the woman who’d just saved her.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I wasn’t even born then.” She added, as if that somehow absolved her from her ancestors’ actions. Would she have done any differently, in their shoes? It hadn’t saved them, either.
“But you still live in their shadow, no, in their light, with the riches and powers of the throne.”
Altessa wanted to argue that one. It wasn’t all perfect roses and plump strawberries, but in the presence of the woman’s anger and obvious lack, she didn’t feel she had much of a leg to stand on. She simply stared at the woman.
“And your mother abandoned the armies to their death, on the eve of the final battle.”
That, Altessa could not let sit, anger bubbling out of her before she could think better of it.
“My mother went to fight Siabala. A lot more people would have died if she hadn’t done that!”
“So you say.” The rebel shrugged. “There’s no proof your mother ever even had magic. Maybe her friends just tried to shore her up so she could get on Rashim’s throne.”
“Why would she do that?” Altessa scoffed.
“Her own kingdom was almost completely destroyed by Eloms. She could gain more power and pull our armies away.” Victory flashed in the rebel’s eyes at her logic.
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Altessa said softly, but didn’t dare meet those eyes, looking down at her hands, instead, feeling the weight of fatigue crush her again. How many other people believed that of her mother? How many now cheered that she was gone? She wished she was back home, mad at her mother for being too careful, getting to know Rojon, laughing with her father.
Where were they now? Rojon was gone. Her mom had been taken, along with Shirina. Her father… She hoped the guards had snuck him out, but if there were traitors among their ranks… The tears came before she could stop them, from exhaustion and fear, or grieving her family. From feeling so lost and alone.
She wanted to wipe the tears away, to maintain composure before the rebel. For all she knew, her parents were dead and the throne was hers. But did any of it matter?
Altessa forced herself to look up at the rebel, expecting victory in her eyes still, as though her tears marked her guilt. But the rebel’s eyes had softened. With a deep breath, Altessa tried to reach her once again, though she knew too many layers of pain and lies drew trenches between them.
“I’m sorry my family has caused you so much pain,” she said, voice trembling, meaning every word. “But I will not pay the price for actions I did not commit. I can learn. I can become better and do more. But I will not bear the burden of generations. And I will not give up on them, either. Now—” she focused on the rebel, the woman observing her, fists clenched, “—do you have a plan to turn me in to them? Because if you do, just get it done with. If not, can we please adopt some semblance of civility?”
Both eyebrows shot up. Then a slight laugh escaped her lips. Altessa looked to the small home, the flowers in the window, the handwritten notes on the walls. This place was clean, and felt cozy. Safe. Like her home had, not long ago.
“I’m Altessa,” she said.
“I know,” the rebel looked at her with incredulity.
“Well, may I know your name, please?”
The woman let a moment pass. And then seemed to decide her worthy. “Ramelia,” she answered.
“Thank you for saving me, Ramelia,” Altessa said, her mind cleared by the release of tears. “Will you be missed? Will they come looking for you here?”
The rebel’s eyes widened and she pushed herself up, though she was unsteady on her feet.
Altessa didn’t want to assume she wanted help, and so just stood up with her, ready to step in while maintaining her distance.
“May I borrow some clothing to change into? I’m rather conspicuous at the moment.”
Ramelia nodded, pointed at a room to the right. As simple as the rest of the home with a small bed and dresser, it nonetheless held everything the princess needed. Including, on a shirt, a familiar insignia, no doubt belonging to the rebel’s parents. She tucked the information away, in case it should be needed later on.
Altessa threw on pants, tightening them with a belt, then picked a cotton shirt, and a heavy coat. She wrapped her hair in a scarf, wiped some of her makeup off. Avarielle had taught her how to vanish quickly. Your hair is too noticeable. Hide it, cut it off, dye it. Don’t be pretty, get dirty. People don’t pay as much attention to dirty if you’re out in the streets. It’s clean and proper that stands out when you’re on the run, and you don’t want to stand out.
She swallowed hard. Thank you, Avarielle.
Then she stepped out, where Ramelia had grabbed a few things. She looked with surprise at the princess, and Altessa fought the urge to stand up proud. Her posture was as part of the disguise as the dirt.
“We’ll need to get out of the city,” Ramelia said.
“My father is in the palace.”
“Your father is dead.”
Altessa’s trembling hands turned to fists at her sides.
“What would you have me do? Run from my own family? My own kingdom? My people?”
Ramelia scoffed at her, crossed her arms, some of her energy returning in anger. “It’s what your family does, isn’t it? Abandon its people?”
“Get out of my way,” Altessa commanded through gritted teeth. “I’ll do this myself if I must.”
“What will you do?” Ramelia asked. “You have no magic. You don’t know who you can trust. What will you do, walk up and demand they obey you? You think that’ll work?”
Altessa reached out for Graydon’s magic in pure anger but found the wells as empty as before. Had the Wall of Loss fallen, now that the magic had vanished? If Shirina and her mother were dead, was she the only one who knew her mother’s magic had held the Wall in place? If they’d managed to survive, wouldn’t they be back here already? The flames of her anger turned to ice as cold dread settled in. But it also brought calm. Her hands loosened at her sides, her mind stopped buzzing.
Rashim would be destroyed if the magic was unleashed. She needed to shore up her people’s defenses, and make sure they knew what was more than likely about to happen.
“What did they intend to do to my mother,” she asked softly, words leaden.
“Kill her.” Ramelia’s words were harsh, but her voice soft.
“Are you sure?” She looked to the rebel, to see if she could spot other possibilities in those dark eyes.
“There was only one plan for her.”
Altessa’s stomach turned once with grief, and she pushed her fears down, ignoring them for now. She’d break down later. Now, she had few options, even fewer allies, and almost no other potential outcome.
Siabala was free or would be shortly. The moment her mother had so feared was coming to pass, and the enemy seemed to have dismantled all their defenses and robbed them of their protective magic.
“I need your help,” Altessa said, voice surprisingly calm. The rebel scoffed.
“To walk back into the palace? I just spent all day getting you out. If you want to go die there, that’s on you. My conscience is clear.”
“No.” Altessa crushed down thoughts of her father, possibly trapped in there. Of her mother, already dead, or soon-to-be. She pushed back the faces of the maids and cooks and guards that formed her world. Of the home she’d grown up in, and both loved and loathed. She pushed deeper still her growing terror of doing everything wrong, despite striving for right. She pushed all of it down and focused on the rebel.
“I need to warn the people of an incoming attack,” she said. For once, Ramelia didn’t scoff at her or have a quick retort. “With Graydon’s magic down, with my mother dead—” her voice faltered, “—or soon to be dead, that means the Wall of Loss will fall, if it hasn’t already.”
She said the words so simply, so calmly, that it took an instant for the full impact to hit Ramelia.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “Why would it come down? It just…it’s safe, right? It held for a thousand years before.”
She looked her straight in the eye, knowing she needed her trust. She needed an ally, and this was the only one she was sure wasn’t out to kill her. Plus, part of her wanted vindication for her mother. To show them she’d been wrong, and her mother had been the hero Altessa had always believed her to be.
“Because after she defeated what she could of him, my mother’s magic reformed the Wall of Loss,” she said. “She gave it all up, almost died, to ensure he remained trapped.” Ramelia’s mouth hung open, trying to form words that wouldn’t come out. “And now that your people have killed her—” another hitch stopped her voice, but she pushed forward, “—and the magic of Graydon is muted, I can only imagine that Siabala is free. We must prepare for invasion.”
Ramelia stood still for a few moments, studying her. The moments dragged on as their eyes remained locked. The rebel seemed to make up her mind and she nodded, lips thin.
“If I find out you’re lying…”
“Our chances of survival will be much higher, and then feel free to give me a piece of your mind.”
Their whispers and fears still thick in the house, they slipped out into the night, hoping the darkness would offer them cover, while Altessa wondered how, exactly, she would help her kingdom.
She had no magic. No Circle. No army. No allies.
All she had was the knowledge of what needed to be done, and the fear of failing her family, their blood casting a shadow over all of Rashim.
