The Mage has his hands on the person’s chest. There’s a haze of deep magic around them, and he’s chanting. It takes me a minute to recognize the song.…
“Easy come, easy go. Little high, little low.”
I step forward quietly; I don’t want to interrupt him in the middle of a spell. Especially if he’s trying to revive someone.
“Carry on, carry on,” the Mage sings.
One more silent step, and I see that it’s Ebb beneath him—I cry out, I can’t help it.
The Mage’s head turns, his lips still murmuring Queen lyrics.
“Simon!” he says, so startled that he pulls his hands away.
“Don’t stop,” I say, falling on my knees. “Help her.”
“Simon,” the Mage says again.
Blood flows out of Ebb’s chest.
“Help her!” I say. “She’s dying!”
“I can’t,” the Mage says. “But, Simon. You’re here. I can still help you.”
He reaches for me, his hands wet with Ebb’s blood. And I know I have to tell him now. I stand jerkily, pulling away from him.
The Mage picks up his blade—it’s bloody, too—and stands with me. His head is split open above his ear, bleeding down his neck and shoulder.
“You’re hurt, sir. I can help.”
He shakes his head, staring just past me. I think he’s freaked out by my wings, but I’m not sure I can put them away right now.
“I’m fine, Simon,” he says.
It’s too late, I’ve already thought about making him better: The gash above his ear heals from the outside in, mending itself.
His hand goes to his head. His eyes widen. “Simon.”
My chin starts to wobble, and I squeeze the hilt of my blade till the wobbling stops. I try to think about making Ebb better—I think I’ve been thinking about it all along—but she still lies there, bleeding.
The Mage steps closer to me, like he’s stepping close to an animal. “You’ve come just in time,” he says softly. He lifts his hand and touches my face. I feel blood trickle down my cheek. “I owe you an apology,” he says. “I got so much wrong.”
I look him in the eye. We’re the same height. “No, sir.”
“Not the power,” he says. “You are the most powerful mage who ever lived, Simon. You’re … a miracle.” He cups my face in his wet palm. “But you’re not the Chosen One.”
I’m not the Chosen One.
Of course I’m not.
I’m not the Chosen One.
Thank magic. This is the only thing anyone has said today that makes sense. But it doesn’t make a difference— I still have to tell him.
I swallow. “Sir, I have something to tell you. Baz and Penelope—”
“They don’t matter now! None of them. The Pitches and their war. As if all of magic doesn’t hang on the precipice! As if the Great Devourer hasn’t marked our door!”
“Sir—”
“I thought I could salvage you,” he whispers. He’s standing so close to me. Holding my face like a baby’s. Or a dog’s. “I thought I could keep my promise to take care of you. That I’d find the right text, the missing rhyme. I thought I could fix you.… But you weren’t the right vessel.” He nods to himself. It’s like he’s still looking past me. “I got this part wrong,” he says. “I got you wrong.”
I look down at Ebb. Then back at the Mage. “The Humdrum—,” I say.
His face contorts. “You’ll never be strong enough to fight him! You’ll never be enough, Simon—it isn’t your fault.”
“It is!” I shake my head, and he holds my jaw firmly. “Sir, I think my power is tied to the Humdrum. I think I might be causing him!”
“Nonsense!” His spit hits my mouth. “The Humdrum was foretold—‘The greatest threat the World of Mages has ever known.’ Just as the Greatest Mage was foretold.”
“But Baz says—”