He stepped closer, leaned in as if he might whisper some secret, but was interrupted by the announcement of the challenge. Sydney sliced through the crowd, to stand at Laurent’s side. The representative of the challenged House was announced, and the casting began.
It was a Four Seasons illusion. No points for originality, but they wouldn’t be needed if it was well done. It was a complicated, exhausting spell that required a great deal of control to both bring the illusion fully into being and to maintain the subtleties of the transitions from one season to the next. A good choice. Sydney watched the woman’s hands as they bent and folded into the necessary shapes. She was casting well—her fingers graceful even in the extreme positions required, bending and stretching with ease.
As was tradition, the illusion began with spring—grass and trees and flowers slowly growing up out of the polished wood of the floor. Petals opening, leaves unfurling, the air ripe with the scent of growing things. It was beautifully done, and with an immense amount of power—pieces of the illusion filled the entire room and were as rich and detailed at its far end as they were near to the woman holding the spell. A second set of trees grew from walls and tables. The air grew warmer, richer, greener. It felt almost electric—the first edges of an oncoming storm.
Sydney went string-tight. “Something’s wrong.”
“Are you sure?” Laurent asked.
She pushed him. “Yes. Go. Get out. Now.”
“It’s rude to—”
“Better rude than dead.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, but set off across the floor in the direction of the casting magician.
Spring did not peak and shimmer into the haze of summer’s glory. Instead, physical vines burst into the room, crawled through the floor, grabbed at tables, at chairs, at the feet of the watching magicians, the illusion searching for any way to further anchor itself into reality. Trees grew, faster and faster, and the rumble of thunder rattled the windows. The green scent of the air no longer pleasant, but choking.
It wasn’t an absence of magic but a surfeit, extra power, pulled from somewhere, avalanching into solidity.
Sydney raised her voice to be heard over the crowd, over the roar of the magic. “Beauchamps forfeits the challenge in the expectation it will be ruled a failure of magic and strongly recommends you all leave before the forest takes the room.”
No one moved.
Branches curled from the ceiling. Floorboards flew through the crowd. A tree exploded up, driving straight through a thin man in a tuxedo, killing him before he could even gasp in shock.
People moved then.
The air was suffocatingly humid. Wind howled. The growth of the forest was so rapid it could be heard over the chaos of people running for the doors.
Sydney continued to fight against the fleeing crowd, toward the casting magician. Ian’s hand closed over her arm. “Is there a reason you aren’t taking your own advice?”
“Look at her.” She yanked her arm out of his hand.
The casting magician had been at the center of the spell, and the forest was intent on claiming her as its own. A tree, some gnarled, twisting thing, was growing through her—branches emerging in horrible, wet red.
There was a high-pitched keen, constant, streaming from the woman’s open mouth.
“She’s still alive,” Ian said, horror in his voice.
“The magic will keep her that way. It will anchor itself in her. Use her as a vessel and keep her in pain and undying. No one deserves that. If I break the spell, I can help her.” Sydney stepped forward, put her left hand on the woman’s heart, her right hand on the tree.
“Sydney, no!”
There was a great, sharp crack, and then silence.
The magic had been ended.
? ? ?
She breathed in.
Sydney was, all at once, an entire forest. She was root and leaf, dirt and sky. Green and spring were blood in her veins, air in her lungs.
She was, between one heartbeat and the next, all of magic. The entire universe worth, rendered into a pinpoint hurricane. It moved through the air, currents and patterns, a sequence suddenly readable. It sang through her bones and reordered the stars. She reached out her hand and touched its heart.
It ran through her like electricity. She pulled it all into herself. She held it. She became.
She breathed out.
Ian staggered against the vacuum left by the vanished magic and looked around the room. The illusion had fallen. The living branches and trees were there, but they were now stone and grey, no longer alive. The only thing moving were flames from where a candelabra had been knocked over, licking at a tablecloth. He upended a pitcher of water, extinguishing them.
The room was quiet. No roar of wind, no howl of magic. Sydney had not only interrupted the spell, she had stopped it cold.
Sydney.
The magic. It hadn’t simply disappeared. It had gone somewhere. He looked to the center of the room, where the spell had started. Where the body of a woman with a tree growing from her heart was also stone, a cold statue.
Sydney was so still she looked like a statue herself. He wasn’t even sure she was breathing. The air surrounding her shimmered like the haze of heat that rose from asphalt in the desert.
“How are you not dead?” he asked.
She turned, and her eyes were as green as the heart of the forest. She saw his expression, and after a pause, her eyes shaded back to grey. “I’m a Shadow. I have some experience in siphoning power.”
Too much now to think about the fact that she had said out loud what he had suspected, that her presence here was a nearly impossible thing. The awe of that—the potential usefulness of her origins—paled next to tonight’s cascade of wonders. “This power. All of this power. That entire spell.” Ian gestured to the surrounding room, to the stone forest that had so recently been green and growing. “You hold it.”
Sydney nodded. She stretched out her hands, shaking them loose, and sparks flew from her fingers. She watched them fall through the air, a smile curling the edges of her mouth.
Fear pooled at the base of his skull. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to run or to kneel at her feet.
“You hold it.” It shouldn’t have been possible—it would be like drinking an ocean, like wearing a storm. He thought momentarily about casting a measurement spell, curious as to how much magic had actually been in the room, then realized it was possible he’d be dead before he spoke the second word if she misinterpreted his intent.
There were still flecks of green, floating like fireflies, in her pupils.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, far more casually than he felt.
“A bit strange. Like there is a river running beneath my skin. I think my heart may have stopped beating for a bit, too.” Her voice sounded detached from her body. “That’s fine, though. I didn’t need it at the time.”
“Well, if that’s all.” Maybe if he pretended like this was normal, like she hadn’t just become something else right in front of him, things would begin to make sense. He offered her an arm.
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to touch you right now.”