Wrenley caught her gaze. “We are each allowed one thing from our life before we decide to dedicate ourselves to the Above.” She gestured to the string of seashells around her neck.
“It’s lovely,” Isidora said, letting her finger trail over the most beautiful one, a golden nautilus shell.
“My father was a flower merchant and used to bring me a shell every time he returned home from trading in the Summer Realm.”
Cold air blew Wrenley’s hair back from her brow, and Isidora turned to see nothing but clouds on one side of the cage. They were so high. Pressure grew in her ears.
“We’re almost there.” Wrenley stood.
Something flashed in Isidora’s vision, a streak outside. She gasped, stumbling back into Wrenley’s legs. What was that? A bird …
But birds didn’t scream.
Wrenley only said, “I believe fate has brought you on this day for a reason.” The cage clattered to a stop. “Step back.”
Isidora did. A thick, glistening liquid pooled into the cage before dripping through the grates. Wrenley covered her hair with her hood, then pulled back the gate. She stepped wide over the wetness.
It was blood, more black than red, and Isidora couldn’t help but follow the trail to a corner of this new room, to where a broken body lay, a body in golden robes.
The golden robes of the High Cleric. Fear tightened in Isidora’s chest. Those who she had come to seek help from could not even help themselves.
“There is someone here to see you,” Wrenley said.
Wrenley’s words drew Isidora inside. And she knew they were at the highest point of the monastery. Windows of stained glass rimmed the circular room, except for one that was shattered. Red, blue, and green shards littered the ground.
That streak falling outside the cage … That had been a High Cleric as well.
White-and gold-robed acolytes bowed before the center of the room, where three shadows stood. Shadows of dark metal and wavering black robes.
Wrenley squeezed Isidora’s shoulder and took an empty place around the circle before the shattered window, becoming as anonymous as all the other Golden Acolytes orbiting the shadows.
And Isidora was very much alone.
Her eyes darted from the lifeless High Cleric on the ground to the shattered window. There had been five High Clerics ruling this monastery for as long as she could remember. As long as anyone could remember …
But now they were dead.
She stepped forward, unable to avoid the blood, and felt its wetness seep into her worn boots. “I’ve come to ask for help. Goblins are coming to my village.”
The shadows rippled, and one detached itself from the rest: a full set of beautifully crafted armor, pitch black like the cape he wore, the helmet eerily avian.
Isidora was a child of the Enchanted Vale. She knew of magic. But magic to her was Elder Miguel healing the scrape on her knee, or Mother singing to the harvest to encourage growth. Magic was a flower she righted after her little brother accidentally snapped the stem.
Isidora had never felt magic like this. It flooded the room, pricking her skin and ringing in her ears. She gasped for air she couldn’t take in.
The figure marched forward, gloved hands tight on a massive hammer. Then he knelt before her, and it felt like night descending as she was shrouded by his shadow.
“You need not worry any longer, child.” His voice was deep, reverberating beneath his helm. “The age of stasis is at an end. No longer will those with the power to protect squander and hide away while the citizens of Spring cower in terror.”
His helmet was crafted in the shape of an owl, and she said: “You’re a prince.” This time, it wasn’t a question. She recognized the helm. He was the second-born Prince of Spring. Suddenly, Isidora was no longer afraid.
“First, we will liberate the mountain villages from the wayward creatures.” Prince Kairyn stood and quirked his helm toward the shattered window, in a move oddly reminiscent of the animal his mask resembled. The sharp, quick motions of an owl. “Then it’s long past time I visited my father, the steward, and his princeguard.”
“You’re really going to save us?” Isidora asked.
“I will save all of Spring. But to do that, I’m going to need a little help.” He kept his gaze fixed on the shattered window, on the capital. “Tell me, child, have you ever heard a nightingale sing?
1
Rosalina
“Marigold! The teapot!” I cry, my hands full of falling cups, plates, and saucers.
Marigold gives a flying leap across the kitchen, floral apron flapping. She snags the teapot right before it shatters on the stone floor.