Bec

THE SACRIFICE

The walls of the tu

Brude screams at us as we invade the tu

We ignore him and proceed, Drust chanting words of powerful magic, me following obediently, awaiting his command.

Brude’s voice fades as we move down the tu

I expect Drust to stop, complete his spells and make the sacrifice. But he keeps moving, slow but sure, following the path of the tu

Eventually, the tu

Drust stands by the edge of the water, observing the stone, for several minutes, muttering more spells. Then he stops and looks at me, smiling tiredly. “A lodestone,” he says. “A reservoir of ancient magic. Very powerful. We think the Old Creatures used stones like this to mark the position of our world, so they could find their way here from the stars. The Old Creatures have drained most of the remaining lodestones of their power, but they either missed this one or deliberately left it charged for one reason or another. Brude found it and used it to open the tu

“Is it safe for you to stop?” I ask nervously, glancing back up the tu

“For a moment,” Drust says. “The spells I’ve cast are at work on the walls of the rock, Brude, the…” He nods towards a point beyond the island. Staring hard, I see the mouth of a second tu

“That’s the tu

“Aye. On their side a demon master has undergone a transformation like Brude, creating that tu

“What if a demon comes through when you’re casting the rest of your spells?” I ask.

Drust pauses. “I won’t be able to stop. You’ll have to fight it.” He runs an eye over me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I lick my lips, mouth dry from the heat of the tu

“Good,” Drust grunts. “And Bran?”

“I don’t know. He was alive when we entered the tu

“If I make it back, I’ll look for the boy,” Drust promises. “If he’s alive, I’ll take care of him.”

He straightens, casts his tiredness off and steps into the water, starting on the next set of spells. I stare at the island of bones for a second—impossible to tell if they’re human or demon, or a mix of the two—then step in after him. Despite the heat of the cave, the water’s cold, but not as cold as the sea was. No need for a warming spell. I wade after Drust, eyes on the lodestone and bones, morbidly wondering if he’ll leave my bones there, on top of the pile, when he’s done.

The water’s shallow, no higher than my lower thigh. It doesn’t take us long to reach the island. When we’re there, Drust climbs up on to the mound of bones. The bones are brittle and many snap under his feet. He takes no notice, continues with the spells, clambering his way over to the lodestone, beckoning me to follow.

The glow in Drust’s hands has changed from blue to a pinkish red. The bones—especially the skulls—look as though they’re aflame. I try to keep my eyes off them as I crawl to where Drust is kneeling, hands stretched out on either side of the lodestone, ready to clasp it when the moment’s right.

As Drust casts spells, I move slightly to one side of him, so I have a clear view of the tu

I find myself thinking about the bones and lodestone. Who set them here? The stone was put in place by the Old Creatures, but did Brude stick the bones underneath it? Have they been left by demons? Or are they the work of the Old Creatures too? Did they sacrifice people to create this place of magic, as Drust plans to sacrifice me?

Despite my unease, I can’t help studying the skulls, wondering if these people were killed on the surface or if they died down here. Were they volunteers? What were they thinking in their final moments? Did they go bravely to their deaths, as I hope to, or did they crumble at the end and scream for mercy?

Drust’s voice rises, disturbing my thoughts. His hands close upon the lodestone, drawing gradually closer as he slips deeper inside the intricate web of spells. I listen to his words, and though they’re hard to decipher—he’s speaking so quickly!—after a while I catch a few of them. He’s on one of the final spells. It won’t be much longer. If I want to offer up any last prayers for myself, I’d better do so now, before—

Drust cries out. His hands fly wide apart, then dart to the small of his back. My eyes shoot down and I spot a dagger sticking out of his flesh, handle quivering, buried to the hilt. I whirl, summoning magic, expecting Co

But it’s neither.

It’s Bran!

The boy stands at the edge of the pool, arm extended—he threw the knife. His face is curiously blank.

My heart leaps. Has Bran’s i

Drust topples aside and sees Bran. He yells with astonishment, then groans with pain. I falter. I want to unleash a spell, drive the boy—the killer—back, destroy him if I can. But it’s Bran! I can’t hurt him, not until I’m sure, not unless—

“Why?” Drust gasps.

Bran blinks. He frowns at Drust, then looks at me—and bursts into tears. “Flower!” he cries. Starting forward, he wades sluggishly through the water, arms flailing, displaying none of his customary lightness of movement.

“Bec!” Drust croaks. “Stop him!”

“No,” I sigh, letting the spell die on my lips, understanding by his tears what has happened. “It’s all right. He won’t do any more damage.”