CHAPTER 33
Thalia
I’ve never felt more helpless in my life as I watch Ferelith set up for a ritual. I know it will involve her bleeding me dry, and supposedly, it will take all my powers. I assume that includes the shadow magic Amell bestowed upon me, but honestly, I don’t think it’s there anymore. My blood is red again, and I feel absolutely no power. Not even the book calls to me.
I try to stand and get almost upright, but my knees wobble, and I collapse back to the stone floor. The magical beating, along with the control I unwittingly gave Ferelith when I offered my blood for Archer’s life, has me utterly sapped.
Ferelith ignores me as she arranges items on a table. A stone bowl, a knife, a black jar. No doubt the bowl is to collect my blood, but no telling what the contents of the jar are for. I learned from Heph, and to some extent from Amell, that blood magic isn’t all that fancy. Some baseline power and an incantation, which can be as simple as a request. Everything hinges on the blood—who it comes from and the amount. If freely given, not as powerful. Taken by violence, it holds extreme potential.
I glance over at the spell book. Ferelith has all but ignored it now that her plans have changed. She relished bleeding me slowly—probably over days to absorb the Clairmont magic—but with enemies breaching the palace, she won’t wait. If I’m planning to do anything, it has to be now.
Once again, I push myself up to a standing position, panting from the exertion. Ferelith hears it, glances at me, and then turns back to the tasks. I pose no threat to her, and I think she’s probably right.
Before I even take a step, I call with all my might to my powers, begging them to push past the hold she has on me. I even summon the shadows, not afraid to use them if they will just flicker to life.
Nothing.
A physical attack is all I have in me now, and I know deep in my soul it won’t work. I can barely stand, my left arm completely useless, but I have to try.
I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly and silently as I prepare to charge across the fifteen feet to Ferelith where my ultimate plan is to knock her to the ground. If the gods are prone to help me, let me get that knife in my hand to plunge into her insidious heart.
The door to the throne room bursts open so violently, the wood shatters and sprays chunks and splinters. I feel the blast of magic behind it.
I also recognize the magic, so familiar, I almost cry.
Bastien.
He steps through the opening as Ferelith wheels around, teeth bared in defense.
My heart soars to see him, alive and well, here to rescue me. His gaze comes to me briefly, in one quick sweep, he takes in my injuries and his face morphs into a mask of fury and retribution.
Bastien wastes no time, blasting what looks like white lightning from his hand toward Ferelith. He rarely uses his warrior caste magic, but he’s as adept at killing with it as he is a sword.
Ferelith spins to the side, the bolt grazing her arm, and she screeches with rage. But Bastien unloads more bolts, sending them from each palm in succession to drive her away from the table and toward the dais that holds the throne.
The sorceress is spry as well as amped with her own blood magics, and she easily bats each energy blast away. The bolts ricochet, crash into walls, and blow out chunks of granite and marble. Ferelith goes on the offensive, whirling her hands around her head to create a funnel of lime-green fire that she shoots in a focused stream at Bastien. He conjures a shield, crouches behind it, and remains safe, but licks of flame catch on paneled curtains that start to burn.
Unsheathing a dagger, Bastien rises above the shield and throws the blade straight at Ferelith. His aim is true, straight for her throat, but she holds up a hand, stopping it inches from striking its mark. The dagger hovers, turns, and with a wave of her hand, multiplies. Dozens of daggers now hover facing Bastien, and he stands poised, ready to deflect.
But they quiver in mid-air before slowly shifting direction, aiming straight at me.
“Fuck,” Bastien curses as Ferelith lets the daggers fly.
I’m powerless to stop them, but Bastien throws a blast of air my way. The stream of wind passes between me and the daggers, blowing them off course where they clatter harmlessly against the wall.
But Ferelith expected Bastien’s willingness to protect me over himself, and while he’s unguarded, she attacks.
I don’t know what she hits him with because nothing is visible, but Bastien’s back arcs in pain. His weapons fall from his hands, and I cry out as his skin grows pale and blue veins spread outward.