The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Forty-Five

Fyra turned to stone, and Bran watched in horror. He watched as the Magician tried to free himself from her grasp. He watched as the Magician lowered his hand against her head, and with a gusty sigh, cursed her statue to fall to pieces. He watched as the Magician stood.

He watched, but he did not see. Not really. He thought he might be in shock. What was shock like, anyway? Was it a knife in your heart, tearing you to pieces? Was it an electric shot of adrenaline that buzzed through you? Or was it just this: the sadness and fear he felt in his limbs, weighing him down—the rhythm of repeated words in his mind?

This can't be happening.

This can't be happening.

This can't be happening.

Fyra had been the survivor. If any of them should have been the one to die—to be turned to stone and broken to smithereens—it should have been him. He was useless. Reed had been the leader. Lark had been the kind one. But Fyra had been the hopeful one. She'd never known when it was time to give up.

And now, she was gone.

"Bran," called the Magician, a mocking tone in his voice.

Bran's head snapped up, and his eyes settled warily on the Magician.

"Bran," said the Magician again. He smiled. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Bran held himself very, very still, and tried to think of a plan. What had Fyra said before she'd run toward the Magician?

Remember how you zapped me? Remember what you did to those mistlings?

Of course he remembered, but he knew he couldn't do that kind of thing on purpose. His powers had always been instinctive—uncontrollable—a raging river that couldn't be bent to the whims of a small boy like him. Did the sun listen to the flea? Did the sea heed the minnow?

No.

The Magician sighed. "Last chance. Show yourself now, and I might let you go. Otherwise I'll have to curse you. I know where you are."

But he couldn't know where Bran stood. If Bran had been in the Magician's cave—the Magician's territory—maybe it would have been possible, but here, in the forest? This was neutral ground. If the Magician wanted it, he'd have to make it his. And Bran was betting he didn't have the patience to do that.

Bran's guess was correct. The Magician shook his head in disappointment when he didn't appear. He began flinging curses, seemingly at random, turning trees and bushes to stone, but missing Bran entirely as he quickly moved out of the way of the spells.

What was to be done? He couldn't continue this dance forever. At some point, the Magician would tire of the game, and try a more effective way of finding him. Or he'd simply go back into his cave. Either way, Bran would have lost his chance at defeating him.

Fear sparked in Bran's belly, along with a small, traitorous idea. He was invisible. It wouldn't be at all hard to walk away from this. The stone snake in his pocket would be useless for summoning the Calamity, since it couldn't fly, but there were other ways to get back to the ship. The mistlings that haunted that one town could take him. He'd get to belong somewhere, finally, after years and years of being too poor, or too angry, or too magical.

Only... he had belonged somewhere before. He'd been a part of a team, with Fyra, and Lark, and Reed. He'd been a jerk at first. The others hadn't always been nice to him, either. But they'd all loved each other in that way that friends do: affection mixed with unbendable loyalty.

Bran let out a small sigh as he realized that he still felt loyal, despite all his fear, and all his anger, and the way his heart beat a terrified drumbeat against his ribs. There was nothing he could do to break that loyalty.