Lakesedge (World at the Lake's Edge #1)(49)

Florence gives us all a steady, flinty look. “You’ll be safe.” There’s no lilt of a question in her voice.

“Of course we will,” Clover says. She smiles, but the brightness doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, we’ll try our best.”

Rowan puts his hand on Arien’s arm. There’s a brief tenderness in his eyes as he looks at my brother. Then he steps back, his face as set and unreadable as a mask. “Are you all ready?”

Arien draws up his shoulders. “We’re ready.”

“Good.” Clover and Arien start to walk toward the water, but when I move to follow them, Rowan touches my arm. “Wait. Violeta, I…”

I turn back. He trails off. We stare at each other, neither of us speaking. He’s tied all of his hair back and his face looks so different without any of the loose, dark waves tangled around it. He keeps touching his fingers to his throat. Around the scars is a pale, indistinct shadow, traces of the poison beneath his skin.

“Aren’t you going to wish me luck in my first ritual?”

“You don’t need luck. I’ve watched you.” Rowan fastens his cloak around his shoulders, then takes his gloves from the pocket and pulls them on brusquely. “I mean—you and Arien. You’ve done well. Both of you.”

“I’m getting better at drawing sigils now. See?”

I show him my arm, and he huffs out a soft laugh. “Be safe, Leta.”

“You too.”

I walk down to the shore and take my place between Arien and Clover, stepping carefully over the sigil so my feet don’t smudge the carved lines. Arien kneels down and presses his palms to the mud. Clover flexes her hands, and sparks scatter from her fingers.

I kneel down beside Arien. The ground is so cold, and the wet mud seeps through my skirts. Though the air is hot against my face, the chill sends shivers all across my skin. I swallow down my revulsion as I put my hands into the earth.

Arien smiles at me reassuringly. “It will be just like when we practiced.”

Clover looks at us. Her eyes are gold, and magic dances over her outspread fingers. “You know what to do.”

The shadows come from Arien’s hands. With the first touch of his magic, the Corruption starts to shift and churn. His first few gestures are tentative, but with each movement he becomes more and more confident.

Power sparks up beneath my skin and the sigil on my wrist burns. I think of a thread. See it unspool alongside the strands of darkness. I hold the shadows in place as Arien casts them out across the ground.

Already, this ritual is different from the first attempt. Arien—all the practice, the lessons, our life at Lakesedge—it’s changed him. His blackened eyes, the cold of his magic, the salt-and-ash taste of it in the air—it’s part of him. It is him. He’s clever and strong, and he’s not afraid.

My magic still feels too small and too faint. But it’s enough. I can help him do this.

Clover murmurs encouragement to us both as she sends light into the spell. “Cast it farther. Tighten it more, over there. Keep going.”

The shadows lattice across the ground. Together, Arien and I weave them into a taut, controlled net. It spreads farther and farther, until it covers the entire shore. Clover’s magic twines through it, and the spell gleams like sunsparks across shallow water. Beneath it, the Corruption begins to glow and waver. Tremors undulate across the ground, from the lake to the edge of the trees. We can do this.

Our hands dig deeper into the mud. It’s so cold. The Corruption shudders against my palms. It feels the same as it did the night Rowan paid the tithe: dark and endless and hungry. So empty of the light that runs through the world—the golden warmth of the Lady’s magic.

I clench my teeth. Think of sun and seeds and flowers. Beside me, Arien is tensed. His muscles are drawn tight. But his magic holds. He keeps control. It doesn’t falter.

We push and coax and force our magic into the earth. The ground moves in waves, like a tide pulled by the moon. The spell is working. Clover and Arien and I, with all of our magic laced together, are mending the Corruption.

The blackened ground begins to change. It softens, the mud turned back to sand. Strands of sedge grass push up from the earth. At our feet, the water ripples, the inky darkness now becoming clear.

For a breath, everything stills. Slowly, Arien draws the shadows back, and Clover lifts her hands from the ground. We sit, encircled by the still-glowing sigil and look around.

It’s mended. It’s all mended.

Then blotches of darkness start to spread across the shore. Arien and I look at each other nervously, then turn to Clover. She holds out a hand, magic sparking across her palm, brow furrowed.

“I don’t understand.” She takes a tentative step toward the water, toward the changing earth. “It shouldn’t be doing this.”

I look down to see the ground tear open. Clover cries out. We fall back heavily as the darkening shore splits into a deep wound. Arien’s elbow strikes my cheek, and all I can see is stars. From far off, I hear Florence calling out, urgent, “Rowan! Get them back. This isn’t—”

Rowan is beside us instantly. He grabs my arm, trying to drag me away.

“Leta—” His voice is choked.

The rift tears wider and wider. Then a shape rises up from the mud. One, then another, then another. They’re tall. Too tall. Oily dark that seeps and drips. They have limbs without hands. Grotesque, faceless heads. They slither forward, and my breath comes out in a desperate gasp.