The Curse of the Blessed

Chapter Forty-Six

I awoke on the ground, facing the blue of the sky. My limbs were stiff at my sides. They refused to move, and I wondered if I'd been paralyzed, or if, perhaps, I was still asleep.

The memories came all at once. Bran. Lark. My sacrifice. If I was here, that meant we had to have won. Didn't it?

My limbs finally cooperated, and I jolted upright just in time to see the last bits of grey stone fade from my fingertips. I turned them over, searching for something else: some little flaw or relic of my time as a statue. And I found it.

On my pinky, a vein of grey cut through my skin, as though my finger was cracked, and the very tip was about to fall off. I poked it gingerly. Other than the color, it behaved just like the skin around it. Perhaps it would be there forever—an eternal reminder of my encounter with the Magician. Or, perhaps, over time, it would fade.

Behind me, someone gasped. I twisted around, half worried I was about to be attacked, but it was only Lark, falling to the ground with a soft thud. Vaguely, distantly, I remembered how she'd turned to stone midair while trying to get away from the Magician. She'd finally been allowed to complete the motion.

I scrambled to my feet and rushed to her, touching her gently on the shoulder. She looked up.

"Fyra? What happened?" Her eyes filled with tears, and she stared down at her violin as it turned back to wood. "The last thing I remember is the stone everywhere."

Uncertainly, I said, "I think we won?"

"Where's Bran?"

I looked around, at the cave, at the woods around us—but I saw no sign of him. "I don't know."

"We have to find him," said Lark. "This could all be the Magician's idea of a cruel joke." She stood. "How did you get turned?"

"I tackled the Magician so that Bran would have time to use Reed's rope."

Her head snapped to look at me. "What?!"

"Uh... it's a long story. I found the rope in the cave." A thought struck me. "Maybe that's where Bran is. Maybe he went to look for Reed."

"Maybe," said Lark. "Maybe."

"Are you up for going to look? If not, I can stay here with you as long as you need."

"I-" Lark hesitated. "I think I'm ready to look. Stay close."

"Of course," I said. "We should probably hold hands, or tie ourselves together, so we don't get separated."

Together, we turned toward the cave. Lark gasped again—the noise soft and hopeful—and I echoed it as I saw what she had noticed. Before I'd been turned to stone, black rock had lined the cave. It had given the whole place an eerie aura, like the entrance to the underworld, or the lair of a beast. Now, the strange rock was gone. In its place was simple stone: the natural walls of the cave that had probably been there years before the Magician had claimed it as his own.

"You might be right," Lark admitted after a moment of staring. "Maybe he's really gone."

"He is," came a voice from inside the cave. A figure emerged from the darkness... wait, no, two figures, one after the other. Bran, and Reed.

Lark rushed forward and threw her arms around Reed. He hugged her back. They embraced for a full minute, and, awkwardly, Bran walked over to me.

"So," I said. "You did it."

"I did it," he agreed. There was a short silence. Then he said, "How did you know I could?"

I shrugged, and a slight smile settled on my lips. "I didn't. I guessed. I trusted." I turned to him. "I'm sorry. It must have been a lot of pressure. If it hadn't been the only idea I had—the only way we could win—I would never have suggested it. I didn't see another way. It was... hard, I'm sure."