“And imagine the evil!” I shout, unable to keep my worry at bay. “Did you see what I just did? My magic could’ve hurt Sir! And you want more? Even if we could get to it, the world won’t receive magic the way you want it to. You believe your father would use more magic for good? Maybe in Cordell’s eyes, but how will it affect my kingdom?”
Theron drops the unlit candle and match he had still been holding and steps closer to me. “The world needs this,” he states. “My father isn’t the only one with plans—we could see to it that the magic would benefit everyone. Your people would all have their own magic. They’d have the strength needed to keep anything like Angra’s takeover from happening again.”
“You can’t tell your father we found it,” I beg. “I know why you fear Angra, but we are stronger than him. You are nothing like him.”
Theron’s eyes narrow in confusion, darting over my face. I pause, waiting for understanding to pull forward his memories, but he only cocks his head, perplexed.
Doesn’t he remember what Angra did to him? Wasn’t that real?
A door opens deeper in the cottage and voices slam into us.
“Is she awake?” Nessa asks.
Dendera chirps when they stumble into the room. “What happened to the door?”
While Sir, Nessa, and Dendera drop into quiet discussion, I draw closer to Theron, lowering my voice. “Please don’t tell Noam.”
“My men saw it too. Your people know we found it. He’ll find out eventually.”
“Only a few of your men were down there, and my people will keep it quiet. Please, Theron. Just give me time to figure out what to do.”
My heart knots up in the pause that follows.
“When you were asleep—” Theron finally says. “You sounded like you were scared.”
He didn’t agree to anything. He changed the subject.
“I dreamed of Angra. And you.” I hesitate, not wanting to hurt him, my words hammers and him a porcelain vase. “In Abril.”
Theron jolts back from me.
I try to wave it away. “It was just a dream—”
He snatches my hand midwave and holds it, every muscle in his body stiff.
“I don’t remember much about it,” he whispers, each word weighted by three months of keeping it inside. “Whole days just . . . gone. But I do remember Angra telling me what he planned to do with you. What he planned to let Herod—” Theron’s voice cracks. “Angra used magic on me in Abril, that much I do know. He shouldn’t have been able to—Royal Conduits can’t affect people not of their kingdom. And if magic like that exists, we need protection.”
My arms twitch to lean forward and wrap around him. But despite his pain, despite the memories throbbing in my mind of Angra’s torture, I can’t agree to what Theron wants.
“Then it’s even more important that the door stays closed. If it’s used wrong, it could aid the very magic you fear.”
Theron grimaces. He’s unconvinced, but Nessa rushes over to me.
“My queen, how are you feeling?”
She doesn’t ask what happened, or anything about the mine shaft, and I assume Sir filled her in enough. Conall and Garrigan take up their places guarding my room when Sir says something about going to check on Finn and Greer. He doesn’t stay to make sure I’m okay; he simply tells Dendera to “ensure that the queen rests.”
No help from him—and no help from Theron either, who also leaves. I try to go after him, but Dendera shoves me onto the cot, scolding me to lie down. Theron doesn’t notice, vanishing without another word. What did I expect him to say, though? What could he do?
He could help me in this. He could stay, help me deal with . . . everything.
No—Theron is broken because of me. Because he came to save me. I saw what he went through—or at least, what he might have gone through. Even if he doesn’t remember what happened, there’s no way to know whether or not what I saw didn’t happen. He doesn’t need to help me; I need to help him. I have other people who can—
Sudden awareness drowns every other thought.
Hannah never responded. The moment I reached out to her, my magic erupted.
I almost call out to her again, but my chest seizes, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the splinters of the door that Nessa brushes into the corner. Our connection was always mysterious—maybe the barrier severed it. The coldness inside of me throbs as if sensing my dilemma, knowing I’m moments away from trying to rekindle my magic.
I’m afraid of it. But I can’t be afraid of my magic. Now that the chasm has been found . . .
I can’t be afraid of anything.
Mather
“BLOCK!”
Mather’s sword cut through the air a beat behind his command, but even as the word left his lips, he knew how this fight would end. His opponent would stumble on the barn’s uneven floor as uncertainty flashed through his eyes; then he would realize his mistake, overcorrect, and end up on his back with Mather’s wooden blade pressing into his collarbone.
Seconds later, the man blinked up at Mather from the floor. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he mumbled, and rolled to his feet, passing his practice sword to the next in line.
Mather exhaled, watching his breath collect in puffs of white in the afternoon air. At least his next opponent, a boy named Philip, was his age. A nice change from the older men, who stared at him with a mix of fear and desperate eagerness.