If he and Brecia couldn’t get out of this miserable fortress, then it made sense that the old people couldn’t get in, either. They probably didn’t even realize they were here.
He came back down to stand in front of Brecia. “Let me ask you a question. Why are there no young people here? No animals?”
“You said he sucked the hope out of people.”
“I was guessing. What do you think?”
“Perhaps Mawdoor fears them.”
“Why?”
She shrugged as she fingered her beautiful cloak. “The young are vibrant. They believe themselves invincible, and that is indeed what saves them many times from catastrophe. Mayhap the young keep Mawdoor from using his full powers because in some way they drain him. I am not at all certain about that, prince; don’t think that I am.”
He thought about it. “I wonder if I can make some changes down there at Penwyth.”
“Prince,” she said, seeing that he’d retreated deep inside his head, where the most ancient curses and chants and incantations resided—wizard’s curses, ancient gods’ curses—all wanting to burst into this world and wreak havoc. “Prince, listen to me,” she said, drawing him back to her. “I have an idea. Focus your mind and your wand on this one spot. I will do the same. Let us just see what we can do with our combined powers.”
The prince looked at her, frowned, then forced calm to flow over him, through him. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe.” He didn’t hold out much hope, but who knew? He looked at the exact spot, stroked his fingers over his wand, speaking to it in its own tongue with his mind, and then he pointed it directly at the same spot to which Brecia’s wand pointed.
Nothing happened. Brecia wanted to yell with the failure, but then, suddenly, the air itself began to tremble. Her wand shook in her hand. It took both hands to hold it steady. It grew cold, becoming colder still with each passing second. It was if they’d somehow managed to open the doors to the ice world that was far to the north. “Keep your thoughts right here,” she said. “Keep pointing, right there, that’s it.”
Wind whistled, tangling their hair about their heads. The bubble began to tremble with the power that blasted against it. The invisible point at which their wands pointed began to breathe. They could hear it, like a giant breathing fast, then faster still, then suddenly there was utter silence. It was if they were held suspended.
Next came incredible grinding sounds, as if an underground mountain were being shoved up through the earth by a giant’s magic fist.
They heard a loud crack, then flames shot up around them, hot flames, coming close, closer still. The prince yelled, “Hold steady, Brecia. Hold steady.”
But her wand was on fire, so hot she could see her fingers turning black. “By the sacred ancient mother of the oaks,” she whispered, but she held on because she had no choice; she held on despite the awful pain, the smell of her own flesh burning. His hands weren’t burning. She saw that his eyes were steady on the point of power, and she redoubled her concentration despite the pain. Why weren’t his fingers burning like hers were?
It wouldn’t be long now. She knew the pain was going to kill her, burn her to ashes. No, no, she had to concentrate, she had to send all her power to the tip of her wand, hold steady—hold steady.
Suddenly the bubble burst outward, flinging flames high into the sky overhead, as far as the eye could see. There was the sound of crashing glass, and it was everywhere. Shards flew up around the flames, merging together to encase the flames, and flame funnels flew so high into the air, they met the clouds. The prince and Brecia waited, not moving. No broken glass fell back down into the courtyard. Nothing at all fell back down. The flames seemed to snake through the clouds. Brecia could have sworn she heard a hissing sound, like water poured on a fire. The funnels disappeared.
The prince saw that Brecia was lying on the ground, unconscious. And her hands—by all the gods—her hands were still burning. He didn’t think, just touched the tip of his wand to hers, now lying on the ground beside her.
From one instant to the next, they were no longer in that wretched courtyard, they were lying on their backs on a deserted beach, as if flung there by an invisible slingshot. How far away their wands had sent them, he didn’t know. At the moment it didn’t seem all that important.
They were free.
Brecia’s beautiful green cloak was lying on the warm sand next to her, smoldering, the wondrous fine-woven material blackened, tattered, as if torn into strips by an animal’s claws. It was ruined.
She awoke to see her cloak burning. Incredibly, it was her cloak that got her attention, not her burning hands. She began scooping up sand and throwing it on the cloak to bury the flames. “Oh, no, oh, no.”
He couldn’t stop her. He looked at her cloak, wished it whole, but nothing happened. He wished it whole with all his being, directing it through his wand. Nothing happened. The cloak continued to smolder sullenly.
He didn’t understand; whatever was burning the cloak was beyond him. He said, “Brecia, leave go. By all the gods, look at your hands.”
She looked down at her outstretched hands, saw her blackened fingers, felt her skin peeling and bubbling, felt pain so deep, so foul and vicious, that she didn’t think she could bear it.
“Don’t snivel. I’m not going to let you die, you careless witch. I’m not going to let your hands burn off. Close your eyes and hold still, dammit.”
He took her hands in both of his, saw that the fingers were raw, bent, so badly burned that they were curved like claws. He leaned down, kissed each of her fingers, touching his tongue to her burned flesh. He kissed each one again, his tongue cool on her flesh. And yet again.
The pain was gone. Her fingers were white again, whole. She was crying silently from the awful pain, tears running down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. He touched his fingertips to her eyes, and the tears fell onto his hands. He turned his hands over, cupped them, and let her tears flow. When his hands were filled with her tears, he looked at her smoldering cloak and whispered two ancient words that he’d never spoken before. “Blashen norna.”
He opened his hands and let the drops of water fall onto the cloak. Nothing happened. He said nothing more, merely looked at the cloak lying there on the ground, burning sluggishly. Then he smiled, lifted her right hand and touched it to the cloak.
The cloak became brilliantly clean and fresh again. There was no sign of fire, no smell of burnt fabric. It was exactly as it once had been. She sucked in her breath, and he felt her joy, her bewilderment, and he smiled at her even as the cloak came around her shoulders. He made a cup again with his right hand, flicked his fingers, and the hood came over her head.