Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(88)

“Please be here, please be here,” I muttered. Then my fingers brushed against something cold, and I jerked the vial free from the fabric.

I threw myself out of the tent and nearly collided with Martin. “Drink it,” I said. “Now.”

“But why?”

I was shaking, my fear so intense I barely kept control over my body. “It binds. That’s what the magic does. Not just hearts and emotions, but worlds. Drink it – drink it now.”

Snatching the vial out of my hand, he tore open the stopper and poured the contents down his throat. The noise of the battle faded into white noise as I watched him. As I waited. “Did it work?”

Instead of answering, he slashed one hand through the air, tearing a hole in the world’s fabric.

A sense of relief filled me, but it was short-lived.

The view through the portal was of Trianon, and all of us forgot the battle being waged between Tristan and his brother.

“Stones and bloody sky,” Chris whispered.

The walls of Trianon still held, and I could see the half-bloods standing atop them, but that wasn’t the source of our horror. Surrounding the city was a teeming horde of people some thirty feet deep – more at the gate – every one of them fighting to get inside. They were pushing and shoving, some crawling over heads and shoulders while others were on their hands and knees, digging into the earth. There were bodies on the ground, some still, some writhing in pain, but man, woman, or child, no one stopped to help.

“What are they so afraid of to behave this way?” Martin asked.

“They are the islanders who were forced to swear loyalty to Roland,” I said, icy sweat dribbling down my spine. “He’s commanded them to breach the walls.”

Chris picked up a rock and threw it against a tree, staggering as the ground trembled again. “This wasn’t supposed to be their plan,” he shouted. “We were supposed to have time. Roland was supposed to march with them. If we’d known, if I’d known–” He broke off, dropping to his knees and burying his face in his hands.

“More and more keep arriving,” Victoria said, pushing me out of her way so that she could get a better view. “Where are they all coming from?”

“Does it matter?” I demanded.

“Yes.” She waved her hand through Martin’s misty form. “Earn your salt, fey, and go do some reconnaissance.”

Martin crawled through the small opening and disappeared.

“Victoria,” I whispered, my tone causing her to look at me sharply. It was taking every ounce of control I had to keep from breaking down, from letting everyone know just how dire the situation was. I stared into her silver eyes: he’s not winning.

Her jaw tightened and she gave a slight nod. Then Martin reappeared. “There’s a highway of magic stretched between Courville and a beach just outside of Trianon,” he said, squeezing back through the hole. “It’s covered in skiffs filled with humans – hundreds of them!”

“Of humans?” Chris demanded.

Martin shook his head, eyes wild. “Hundreds of skiffs.”

Which meant thousands of people out over open water entirely at Roland’s mercy. Once again we’d underestimated Angoulême’s ingenuity: he hadn’t fallen into our trap. We’d fallen into his.





Chapter Fifty-One





Tristan





I ran like I had never before. Roland’s magic hammered against my shields, knocking me to my knees and leveling the forest, leaving nothing but smoking ruins and steam.

I couldn’t kill him, not with a city full of civilians balanced precariously on his magic.

I couldn’t flee, not without risking him dumping half of them into the ocean to lure me back.

There was no option but for me to engage. I kept to the coast, sending out feelers of magic deep into the water to test the steadiness of Roland’s bridge. It was solid. That’s why he’d been sighted standing on the beach: not because he’d been fascinated with the water, but because he’d been building, preparing, for this moment. Holding up those thousands of people was costing him nothing, but if he dropped them and I had to catch them, it would cost me everything.

Cutting down onto the sand, I risked a glance out to sea and confirmed my hope. The skiffs were moving, propelled by a dozen or so trolls that no doubt had been responsible for forcing the people into the wooden craft in the first place. All I had to do was keep him engaged until they were across. Never mind that it might take them hours.

Skidding to a halt, I turned, waiting for Roland to cusp the hill so that I could launch an attack of my own.

His short legs were pumping hard as he came into sight, tear-streaked face a twisted mixture of wrath and desperation, and never in my life had I hated Angoulême more. Who did this to a child? Who used an eight year-old boy as a tool to slaughter their enemies, especially when said enemies were the boy’s own family members?

But conflicted or not, Roland didn’t hesitate to attack. Our powers collided with thunderclaps that shook the earth, explosions of heat melting snow for miles around. His strategy was nearly as mindless as my mother’s had been, but as with her, his total disregard for his own safety or the destruction he was causing allowed him to channel more power into his offensive.