White Heart of Justice (21 page)

I missed. It was cold comfort that the blast seared and blackened another handful of basilisks.

Brunus plunged the knife deep into Telesto's rump and, finally, after emitting a heart-wrenching bray, Telesto bolted south taking Brunus with him. I raised my arms to try to cover my face from the continuing onslaught of basilisk tails, teeth, and claws, but they went right for the exposed skin on the back of my neck. I felt a sharp, searing pain as one of them sank its teeth into me. The venom's effects were immediate. All of the things I'd been feeling previously—pain, cold, terror—multiplied. Just when I thought those feelings couldn't get any worse, I saw Peter riding Brisaya hell-for-leather after Brunus and Telesto. His hands were coated in eerie electric blue Angel light as he gripped the ruff of her neck. I didn't need to hear her squeals or see her hair standing up on end to know that whatever he was casting into her
hurt
. This time I shaped my magic into a razor-sharp, steely thin, platinum-strength shaft of
dark
magic and threw it straight toward Peter's chest.

Let him feel what I feel right now,
I thought savagely.
And what
Brisaya
feels.
It enraged me that I had to expend energy and magic on two people who should have been fighting beside us, not abandoning us.

But instead of finding its way to Peter's heart, my dark javelin hit his shoulder. It hurt him, but not nearly enough to kill him or even unseat him. In a flurry of snow and ash, which I saw through a veil of beating tails and wings, Brunus, Peter, Telesto, and Brisaya were gone.

The basilisks remained, poised to overtake us. Rafe and I were now bleeding from countless festering wounds. If we couldn't fight our way into the bailey gaol dungeon soon, my fire would be out. Completely. Finally. And forever. I wanted—
needed
—a new weapon. Something that was more graceful, numerous, and organic than a flaming replica of some ground bound inflexible steel blade. Something that might even have its own sentience and mobility, as the
monstrum metallum
had had. And that's when I decided to try shaping my magic into hawks.

Not living hawks, but waning magic hawks, which would be as real as my weapons were. As real as the fiery frogs that I'd shaped for my mother in Demeter's spring. As real as the flaming dove that I'd shaped for Delgato, our training professor from last semester. But this time I wouldn't just shape one blazing bird of peace; I would shape a whole flock of fiery war birds.

I gathered my waning magic and volatile emotions around me like a burning cloak and then flexed my signature. It pulsed like a solar flare. It was the kind of indiscriminate blast that normally harmed everything but demons, which would have included Rafe. But just as Rafe started to cast a defensive shield, I willed my inchoate magic into dozens of reddish black firebirds. Those blazing raptors lit up the gray skies and the oily iridescent shine of the basilisk swarm. The basilisks emitted an angry collective hiss as my war birds took aim at them. Of course, the devastating, ironic beauty of my flaming creations was that they couldn't die. The moment a basilisk managed to get a choke hold on one or managed to bite one of their heads off, they just reformed. It would have been one of the most energizing, empowering moments of my life . . . if I didn't know that creating them had also, possibly irreversibly, pushed me on the path toward death. Throwing that blast and then reshaping it into the war birds pushed the cursed arrowhead right up against the beating wall of my heart.

I sank to the ground, my vision blackening, my hand grasping at the rubble, seeking purchase to hang on, not just to consciousness, but to life.

To me, it seemed like I sat there for hours while the battle around me still raged, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before I felt a few spells slip over me and Rafe's arms slip around me. He dragged me down into the now uncovered stairwell, the whole of whatever else was still going on up top unknown to me.

The last thing I saw before everything went black was the silver rectangle of dusk light at the top of the stairs full of ash and fire.

II

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

—SHAKESPEARE,
HENRY IV, PART 2

Chapter 19

I
awoke, hours later, still in Rafe's arms, feeling only marginally better—the effect of heavy spellcasting. We were slumped against the stone wall in the short hallway of the bailey gaol dungeon. Rafe was still sleeping. In some respects, it reminded me of our train trip down to Maize. But this time, the pain in my chest was more of a pressure. It felt like someone had coated my heart and lungs with tar. Just breathing was a struggle and I knew instinctively that trying to use my magic again without first removing the arrow tip would probably kill me.

The silver rectangle of dusk light had turned black. Nothing had crept in on us as we slept, however. My guess was that Rafe had cast Impenetrable over the top of the stairwell as well as an ordinary spell of warmth down here because despite the stone surroundings and our lack of fire, I wasn't cold. Up above, the hissing basilisks had been replaced by the whistling wind. I supposed the rest of the basilisks had either been killed or had left. My thoughts turned to Brunus, Peter, Telesto, and Brisaya.

Were they still alive? If so, where were they?

I was desperate to get back in the race myself, but I was equally aware that I wouldn't make it even a mile in my current condition. And Luck forbid we were attacked again. I'd likely die before I could shape a weapon to defend myself.

I shifted my weight, waking Rafe. He looked only slightly battle worn so I knew he must have healed most of our injuries earlier. It seemed the only remaining injury was the one I'd had
prior
to the battle with the
monstrum metallum
and the basilisks: the embedded arrow tip. I knew it would have to come out, one way or another, but before attempting something that could just as easily end my life as save it, there was something else I had to do.

Tell Rafe the truth about Ari.

“We're stuck down here for a while,” Rafe said, stretching as his low voice echoed off the stone walls. He cast a small ball of Angel light, which he then enlarged and floated toward the back of the hall. At once the darkness retreated, replaced by shapes outlined in glowing shades of cerulean, cobalt, and indigo.

“Why's that?” I asked, sitting up. My head swam and I put my hand out to steady myself.

“Even I couldn't cast our way through that storm,” Rafe said, pointing up.

Oh.
It hadn't occurred to me that we might be trapped down here for reasons other than my need to dig the arrow tip out of my chest. At least, if they were still alive, Brunus and Peter were stranded wherever they'd found shelter as well.

“We'll have to dig out some food,” I mumbled, trying to ignore the dull ache in my stomach, which was only slightly less distracting than the pressure in my chest.

“I went up about an hour ago. The sledge is destroyed but I managed to bring down most of the gear and food.”

I noticed, for the first time, that he'd rescued my cloak. It was wrapped around me. I nodded, wincing.

Rafe frowned. “I thought you were completely healed. Where does it hurt?”

“It's not pain as much as pressure,” I explained, glancing up at him. My voice sounded hollow and it wasn't just the echo. “It's the arrow tip.”

Rafe looked confused. “I thought your swim through the spring with your mother removed any magic that the arrow tip may have had.” But then he saw the look on my face and his confusion turned to anger. It was the first time I'd seen Rafe look angry with me. But his angry look soon softened to one of resignation.

“Onyx, why?”

“Why didn't I tell you the arrow tip was still cursed?”

Rafe just stared at me.

I chewed on my lip. A nervous habit I thought I'd banished.

“I guess . . . I thought . . . well, I didn't want you—or anyone else—trying to stop me from racing.”

Rafe considered me for a while. It was his contemplative look times ten. Finally, he said, “You're right. I would have tried to talk you out of it. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't have told me. I'm your
Guardian
, Noon. How am I supposed to protect you if you don't even tell me when you're
cursed
?”

Rafe's irate look was back.

“I'm sorry,” I said, clasping his hand. “It won't happen again. I promise.”

Since Haljans weren't in the habit of making promises lightly, my words seemed to assuage his ire.

“It has to come out,” I said a second later, letting go.

Rafe shook his head slowly. “Your brother said it was ensorcelled. Now that we know it's cursed, it's even more certain that trying to remove it could—”

“Kill me. I know.” Maybe I was getting too used to these situations. But instead of feeling scared, I just felt determined. “The arrow tip's interfering with my magic. Removing it
might
kill me, but leaving it in definitely will.”

Rafe started to look stubborn so I fast-forwarded to what we needed to talk about before attempting my plan.

“Rafe . . .” I began slowly, gathering my thoughts. Even though moving made it harder to breathe, I turned around and straddled his legs so that I could see him in the semi-darkness. I grabbed both of his hands with mine and shook them gently. I took a deep breath and looked toward the dungeon's stairwell. Toward the outside. Toward a land covered in snow and ice, one that had been beaten down by howling winds, and then tucked under a threadbare blanket made of empty nights and starless skies.

How was I supposed to tell Rafe that Aristos Carmine was the drakon half brother he thought he'd drowned all those years ago?
It sounded preposterous even to me and I knew it was true.

“Bhereg didn't drown,” I said. Sometimes, being blunt worked best.

Rafe stiffened and I squeezed his hands. “Before you start arguing, just listen. Joy Carmine found the basket that you floated into the Lethe.
Ari
is your brother.” Rafe's warm expression cooled, hardened, and congealed, finally settling into a mask of confused horror. I continued in a rush of words, eager to tell him the whole truth before I lost his attention to the shock of hearing such an astonishing, implausible—yet undeniably accurate—story.

“I've heard the story of Joy's finding Ari floating on the Lethe at least a half dozen times by now. I've even seen a picture—of Joy holding Ari with the basket at her feet. And the timing matches. Perfectly.” I pointed to Rafe's silver bracelet. “You put Bhereg in that basket twenty-two years ago during the month of Ciele. And Joy found Ari twenty-two years ago. During the month of Ciele.”

Rafe became so still he could have been a statue. I suppose I should have expected it. What I'd just told him likely refuted his deepest, darkest self-belief—that he'd committed fratricide at the age of six. Still, I guess I'd naively thought he would look happier at the news. Instead, his eyes reflected the eerie electric blue of the Angel light and his normally cheerful expression appeared chiseled from granite.

“I would have told you sooner but I didn't know what happened. All this time I just assumed, from our discussions and the memory of Bhereg's funeral, that he drowned in the Lethe and that it was an accident. If I'd have known—”

“That it was no accident—”

“Stop it,” I growled. The pressure in my chest was veering toward pain again. “You were trying to save his life.”

“Bhereg might have seen it that way, but Aristos Carmine? Unlikely.”

“You don't know that,” I protested. “You should . . .” My voice trailed off as I considered where all of this might eventually lead.

We spent an untold amount of time after that, sitting in the dark, saying nothing. I knew it would take time for Rafe to process what this revelation really meant. After a while, he gave me a rueful smile.

“You think I should try and find him?” He barked out a laugh. “And what should I say if I do? Should I tell him I'm sorry the basket leaked? Should I tell him that I didn't
really
mean for him to drown?” He lowered the volume of his voice then, but not its intensity. “And what about how he's feeling now? Should I tell him I'm sorry he's miserable? Because I know he is. How? Because I've still got
his
memory. Of
you
. Ari's memory.
Bhereg's
memory. Of loving
you
.”

Rafe pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and made an angry, anguished sound. But he looked up a second later, his eyes dry and his expression bitter. “Ari is
never
going to get over you, Noon. I know because I
still
feel what he feels for you.” A burst of something icy hot exploded in my stomach. I clenched my fists and turned away. But a moment later, Rafe gently turned my face toward him again.

“And when I meet with Ari,” he whispered, “to tell him the truth . . . and suggest that we reconsider our relationship from a more fraternal perspective . . . should I tell him that I didn't mean to kiss you too? That kissing you was just another unintended ‘accident'?”

I stared at Rafe, my gaze wandering across his thick, wavy, wheat-colored hair. In this light it looked like he'd rubbed charcoal into it. His eyes glowed like twin moons while his unsmiling features were half eclipsed by dark shadows. For once, he looked every bit the powerful spellcaster he was.

It suddenly occurred to me how emotionally inconvenient the truth was. I didn't want to be talking about Ari. I didn't want to be thinking about Ari. It wasn't fair, to either Rafe or me, to dwell on the consequences of finding out that Luck had played a cruel joke on us. On
all
of us.

I leaned toward Rafe.

“Ari lost his right to complain when he kept the truth from me,” I said. “You, on the other hand, chose to be honest.” I tensed as a new thought occurred to me. “There isn't anything else you haven't told me, is there?”

Rafe gave me a contemplative look. After a while, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. He let his hand rest against my cheek for a moment, but then let it drop.

“No . . . there's nothing else.”

I nodded my head and swallowed. “Then it's time.”

I scooted off him, stood up, and removed my cloak. I laid it on the ground like a blanket. I pulled off my sweater and started unlacing my tunic. My fingers were stiff and my heart was racing. I didn't want to change my mind. Rafe eyed me with a combination of humor, desire, and not a small amount of wariness. I fumbled with the last knot on my tunic, finally untied it, and lifted the shirt over my head. I stood before Rafe in my fur-lined leather leggings and bustier. Quickly, before I lost my nerve entirely, I shucked the bustier and flopped down on the ground in front of Rafe, faceup.

To his credit, he kept his eyes on my face and gave me a dubious look.

“Time for what exactly?”

“Time to remove the arrow tip, Rafe. It has to be done. Grab a knife from the kit and get ready to cast.”

“No way, Onyx,” he said, throwing his own cloak over me. “I watched your brother work on you the night we arrived in Maize. He knows what he's talking about.”

“I'm not saying he doesn't. But Night's not here for a follow-up consultation. And the fact is, I'll never make it back to Maize if you don't help me take it out.”

“How do you know?”

I could tell Rafe was just going through the motions of an argument. He was humoring me. He had no intention of helping me gouge a hole in my chest. I sighed. I'd known convincing Rafe wouldn't be easy.

“I can feel it, Rafe. Not just physically. But magically.”

He frowned. And fell back on his earlier argument. “If we try to remove it, it might kill you.”

“Maybe. But the alternative is
certain
death. Which would you choose? I know some people think of Maegesters as modern-day knights. And that most knights would rather die in battle. But do you really think
I
want to? Come on, Rafe. I don't want to go out in a blaze of glory during our next demon fight. You know me. I want to try and survive. Help me.”

Rafe looked conflicted. And worried.

“Maybe I can cast a spell—”

“It needs to come out,” I said in a steely voice. “That's why I told you about Ari. Not that I wouldn't have anyway,” I said quickly. “But I wanted you to know . . . just in case . . .”

His worried look turned mutinous.

“Rafe, I'm going to cut it out one way or another,” I said, sighing. “You can either heal me afterward. Or not. If you don't, I'll die so you won't even have to hear me call you an oath breaker.”

He made a sound of disgust. “How can you say such things?”

He stood up and paced back and forth for a while, clearly conflicted about what he was about to do. I lay there, trying to remember if I'd told him everything he might need to know if . . . things didn't work out. His thoughts must have been following the same lines because he finally stopped pacing and said: