Phony Potions

Chapter 48

I saw into it long before we got to the hall where the main fighting was taking place. Holes were blown through several of the rooms, sparks still searing at the paint on the walls, filling the entire place with a bitter smoke.

"What's happening?" I cried.

"I don't know," Sir Osoro said. I glanced back at him. His face was plain again. Not handsome. Something had gone wrong.

We stumbled into the entryway. The dining hall's arched doorway acted as a portrait's frame, although the fighting spilled out from it through the front door and into the garden. Not much distinguished the garden from the front of the manor, as much of it had been blown away, only stacks of rubble hinting at where the walls had been.

"Sir Fayd!" Osoro pointed. Freckles was being held by several musing sorcerer elves near the edges of the fracas, a sash wrapped around his mouth. That pocket of the sorcerers was quiet. It was being eaten into as one and then another lining its edges would be cast on or cast against someone else. Like at the Avalon fight, I saw people cheering, laughing, and taking bets between shouting out encouragements and jeers.

Although a dozen personal vendettas were being settled, most of the storm circled around where it had started: Bernard and Winsor at the front of the room. Winsor was shored up with Azeria and a few others. Not many others. Not nearly as many as Bernard. They both had encircled themselves with cover, Winsor's group having flipped up a table. Bernard's stood behind the sizzling remains of Winsor's gift boxes. A giant snake slithered its way across the floor, a feather hat farcically placed on its head.

Despite his group being three times the size of Winsor's, Bernard was worse for wear. He hunched down, too scared to cast. Winsor, filled with righteous indignation, cast brutally and without regard to the fall out. Azeria was at his side. The dispute we'd been witnessing when we left had started a free-for-all.

Agent Goldwynn was still casting in full uniform, a triumphant laugh burst from the bird-like mask with every impact his words made. Quarzimi was tied to one of the chairs and shoved against a wall, his mask ripped off and left on the floor by his feet. Spells flew across the room as arguments flared. People fought about everything from tribute to affairs to stolen archaic tomes. I saw Victoria cast Fatima into a small rabbit. She lifted her painfully by the ears.

One person threw their Assistant into the way of a blast that charred their skin. Several of the helping staff laid injured on the floor, ignored by everyone. My eyes swept for Kluth's distinctive white uniform, but instead landed on Rorona. She was kneeling on the floor, holding someone to her and crying. Half a dozen others, colorfully dressed, were crowded around the same figure like a ring of flowers.

The cacophony was ear shattering. We were all transfixed by the spectacle, magic flashing like lightning behind heavy gray clouds. The Divinis stumbled into the room, and he cried out. His words were nonsense.

Winsor touched Azeria's arm to grab her attention. His face awoke with shock as he realized what had become of his celebration. Bernard peeked out from behind his table.

"Father? Why are you bleeding?" Winsor shouted and hopped from behind his cover. Azeria lunged after him, but her fingernails only grazed the fabric of his shirt. Winsor ran toward the Divinis.

Bernard peered over the edge of the ruined presents. Goldwynn's beak tracked Winsor's path across the room. He cast a spell around Bernard, who ducked. It flew toward Winsor. Bernard frantically shook his head.

"What are you doing?" he screamed at Goldwynn. "He stopped. He stopped. Why?"

The spell followed Winsor's body as he swam through the crowd toward his father. Divinis Wenrick's front was covered in the blood that spilled from his mouth, making him look more gravely wounded than he was. Winsor was chanting to heal him between deep gasps of breath. He skidded to a stop on the carpet in his thin formal boots. He placed a hand on his father's arm, the same tender concern he'd shown for me in the alley.