Reid had warned her that attempting to fix her powers could kill her.
The pain was so intense. Her breath came in rapid gasps, and she collapsed on the ground beside Alistair, her palms pressed against her closed eyes.
Then, after what felt like hours, a cooling sensation passed through her. When she opened her eyes, she saw the magick glowing in the flasks scattered around her on the grass. She saw the white pulse of light in every stone, waiting for her.
Without pausing to celebrate her victory, she grabbed each of her healing spellstones and tore at Alistair’s sweater and undershirt. She gasped when she exposed the wound, his flesh split open and brimming with blood. Swallowing her dread, she pressed her hand to it, and in her other, she squeezed a Healer’s Touch spellstone.
She cast it once, twice, three times, until all its magick had depleted. The blood stopped flowing. Still, the wound didn’t close. She moved on to the next stone.
And the next one.
“Come on, Al.”
And the next.
And the next.
Finally the wound closed, and his broken patella was mostly reset, but she had exhausted the stones and Alistair hadn’t opened his eyes. Clutching his hand, Isobel rested her cheek against his chest, listening for a pulse. At first, all she heard was the noise of forest crickets and owls. Then she finally made out his heartbeat—faint but there—and far beyond, the sound of approaching footsteps. Probably Finley and Elionor returning to finish her, too.
“Seven letters,” she whispered to Alistair. “To endure.”
“Survive,” she heard him rasp. She almost thought she’d imagined it at first, but then she lifted her head and realized his eyes were open, watching her. He let out a wheezy breath, then he smiled. She realized she’d never seen Alistair smile in a way that wasn’t meant to be a threat. “Hello, rival,” he whispered.
The footsteps running toward them grew louder. With her free hand, Isobel reached for her curserings, ready to face reality at last.
“When I say it,” Isobel told him, “you run.”
BRIONY THORBURN
The youngest champion on record to win the tournament was fourteen-year-old Callum Thorburn. The Thorburns consider it an achievement, when really, it’s a tragedy.
A Tradition of Tragedy
There had been no real time to prepare once the Relic started falling. Briony could only hope all four of them were ready to carry out the strategy they’d worked on for the past week, despite her and Elionor’s fight. As soon as the sixth star shone red, all that had been forgotten anyway—Briony had left almost immediately to retrieve the Mirror, while the other three began their own preparations.
Elionor and Finley planned to head off would-be attackers coming from the mountains, while Carbry moved toward the Castle to deal with Gavin Grieve. Briony was heading straight for the Relic, but it wasn’t falling on the trajectory she’d expected. Instead of the moorlands, it fell in the forest, closer to where Finley and Elionor had gone.
She trekked closer to the area where the scraggly underbrush became wood again, trying to follow the red light. A Pick Up the Pace spell made a five-kilometer sprint feel like half the distance. This wasn’t like the Sword, which had basically dropped into her lap, or the Cloak, which had been easy to follow. She was only sure she was heading in the right direction when cursefire whizzed above her head.
She jerked backward and threw up one of the cheap shields she’d crafted, holding it alongside her speed spell as two boys tumbled into the clearing beside her, mid-battle.
She recognized Carbry’s face first. His blond curls were slicked back with sweat, his expression intensely focused. He raised a hand and arrows glimmered in the air.
The second boy snorted, then cast a countercurse. A surge of power crackled through the air, a shimmering net that destroyed the arrows everywhere it touched.
Briony didn’t understand how the hell Gavin Grieve had gotten so strong—but the magick worked on her, too, dissolving her shield and the Pick Up the Pace spell. Both of their heads swung to look at her. Gavin raised a warning hand.
“Here.” Briony darted to Carbry’s side. “Let me help.”
But the look on his face was not relieved. It was hostile. “Get away from me,” he snarled, backing into the trees.
“What?” Briony gasped. “Why?”
“You attacked Elionor. Don’t try to pretend you didn’t.”
Briony gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”
“She told us everything. How you turned on her as soon as you saw the Relic. How you ran away to take it for yourself.”