I grimly wrapped bands of power around the manacles on my wrists, and before I could lose my nerve, jerked them apart. The pain almost drove me to my knees, but with it came relief as my magic surged, no longer limited by the toxic metal. Steeling myself, I stepped back into the room.
The air was thick with dust and smoke, but it was still possible to see the chaos my mother had enacted upon the room. Everything was destroyed, furniture little more than splinters, paintings and tapestries ablaze. The ceiling had partially caved in to reveal the dark cavernous space hanging above the city. I searched the room for my aunt’s light, but there was only the orange glow of fire. My eyes stung, and I coughed on the thickening smoke.
The blow came sharp and sudden, but I was ready for it. Again and again she struck; and through the haze, I caught sight of her coming toward me. My aunt hung limply from her back, and I prayed she was only unconscious, the alternative too terrible to contemplate.
“Mother!” I had to shout over the exploding collisions of our magic. “It’s Tristan.”
But she didn’t seem to hear or recognize me, her mind wholly concerned with inflicting wrath and ruin. The mere act of protecting myself from her assault was exhausting, and I did not see how it would be possible for me to cut her off from her magic. She was too strong, and she was wasting no power on trying to protect herself, forcing me to deflect the collapsing rubble away from both of us. All she cared about was destroying me, and that she might lose her own life in the process didn’t seem to matter.
I needed my father’s help, and I needed it soon – or she was going to pull the entire palace down. And without the walls to contain her, there was the very real chance she might damage the magic of the tree and put all of Trollus in danger. If she did, then I’d be forced to hurt her to stop her, and that I didn’t want to do.
Holding her back was akin to containing a storm. Magic ceaselessly buffeted and slammed up against me, employing no strategy, only mindless force. Smoke and heat blew into my face, rubble piling up beneath my feet and threatening to trip me up. I didn’t know how to stop her. If it had been a duel, I could have killed her easily, but stopping her without hurting her seemed impossible. If I hit her too hard, I might harm her, but if I didn’t hit her hard enough, it would only infuriate her more. All I could think of was keeping her focus on trying to hurt me and minimizing what collateral damage I could.
Please hurry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d desired my father’s presence, but I needed him now. He’d know what to do.
The walls of the adjoining rooms fell in around us, and the floor beneath my feet began to shake. The whole wing of the palace was going to collapse.
“Matilde!”
My mother’s head jerked up at the sound of my father’s voice, and as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. She looked around in bewilderment, seemingly unable to comprehend that she had been the cause of the destruction. “What has happened?”
“Move.” My father shoved me aside, striding through the rubble. With the sleeve of his coat, he wiped the blood off her face, his expression surprisingly anxious. “Are you hurt, darling?”
She shook her head, tears turning pink as they ran down her cheeks. “I was so angry. So angry.” She pressed one hand to her forehead, and my heart ached watching her struggle to remember, her shoulders beginning to shake as the little pieces fit themselves together. “Tristan?” She choked out my name.
“He’s fine.” My father turned his head to look at me as though to prove to himself that I was unharmed. “He’s fine,” he repeated again, pulling her close. “Sylvie?”
“I was looking to redecorate anyway,” my aunt replied. Her words might have been blasé, but not even my mother missed the tremble in her voice.
She broke into racking sobs, and collapsed against my father’s chest. A shimmer of magic appeared around my aunt as she walled herself off from them. I should have left or done the same, but instead I sat down in the rubble and dust, watching my parents.
“I’m sorry, love. This was not your fault – it was mine.” He picked bits of broken rock out of her hair, tried fruitlessly to smooth away the dust, before resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I’m so sorry to have put you through this. I will make everything right.”