“I failed to destroy the Fates. I’m sorry. But I’m paying the price,” Legend said, his voice carrying down through the cracked window above. “My magic has grown much weaker since the moment they were freed. The Fates are still asleep for now, but I think they’ve already taken some of their powers back. I can barely do a simple illusion.”
Tella resisted the urge to stand and steal another look. Was he telling the truth? If the Fates had somehow managed to steal his magic, then it would explain why he’d vanished so violently from her dreams the other night, and failed to appear last night. Yet she’d seen him use a glamour in the forest to change his clothes, and he’d seemed to have no trouble with it.
Of course, that was a small illusion, and she hadn’t been close enough to touch it. In one of her earlier dreams with Legend, he had explained how his powers worked. He’d told Tella: Magic comes in two forms. Those with powers can usually either manipulate people or manipulate the world. But I can do both and create lifelike glamours that feel far more real than ordinary illusions. I can make it rain, and you wouldn’t just see the rain, you’d feel it soaking your clothes and your skin. You’d feel it all the way down to your bones if I wanted you to.
It had started raining then, inside of her dream, and when she’d woken up hours later, her thin nightdress had been speckled with drops of wet and her curls had been soaked—letting her know that the dreams weren’t just her imaginings, but real rendezvous with Legend, and that his powers of illusion extended far beyond them.
Perhaps Legend was telling the truth about the Fates taking some of his magic, but he wasn’t telling the entire truth. Maybe he could still create illusions, but they weren’t powerful enough to trick people into believing they were real.
Tella thought back to the dead butterfly she’d found in her hand when she’d woken up the day before. Now that she really considered it, she’d seen the butterfly, but she hadn’t felt it. Its delicate wings hadn’t brushed her skin, and as soon as she’d set it on the nightstand, it had vanished.
“The Fates shouldn’t have any of your magic,” the witch bit out, “not unless you released them from the cards.”
“I would never do that. Do you think I’m a fool? I’ve been trying to destroy that deck since the day you made me.” Legend’s tone was clipped as if he were genuinely offended, but Tella knew that this was all a lie. A blatant lie to the woman who’d created him. He had wanted to destroy the cards, but when he’d been given the opportunity, he hadn’t. He’d freed the Fates instead, to save Tella.
“I still want to stop the Fates,” Legend went on. “But to do it, I need to borrow your magic.”
“You can’t stop the Fates with magic,” said the witch. “That’s why I told you to destroy the Deck of Destiny. They’re immortals, like you. If you kill a Fate, they will die, but then they’ll simply return to life.”
“But they have to possess a weakness.” Legend’s voice took on that edge once again, a voice for unraveling and stealing. He wanted Esmeralda’s magic and he wanted to know the Fates’ fatal weakness.
It should have given Tella relief that he was searching for a way to destroy them—she didn’t want the Fates alive either—but a horrible feeling came to life inside her as she heard the decisive click of Legend’s boots.
Tella pictured him moving closer to Esmeralda.
She clamped her frozen hands into fists, fighting the growing urge to peek through the window, to see if he was doing more than closing the distance in order to get the information he wanted. Was he touching the witch? Was he wrapping his arms around her cinched waist, or looking at her the way he sometimes looked at Tella?
When Esmeralda spoke once more, her voice had turned seductive again. “The Fates that were imprisoned do have one disadvantage. Their immortality is linked to the Fate who created them: the Fallen Star. If you kill the Fallen Star, the Fates he made will change from immortal to ageless, similar to your performers. They will still have their magic, and they will never grow old, but unlike your performers, they will not have Caraval to bring them back to life if they die. If you wish to destroy all the Fates, you must first slay the Fallen Star.”
“How do I do that?” Legend asked.
“I think you already know. The Fallen Star shares the same weakness as you.”
The pause that followed was so quiet and still that Tella swore she could hear the snowflakes falling on the roses around her. Twice in a row the witch had just likened Legend to the Fallen Star. First, when she’d mentioned the Fallen Star’s Fates and Legend’s performers. And now she’d just said that Legend shared the same weakness as the Fallen Star.
Did that mean Legend was a Fate?
Tella flashed back to something her nana Anna used to say when she told the story about how Legend came to be. “Some would probably call him a villain. Others would say his magic makes him closer to a god.”
People had also called the Fates gods at one point in time—cruel, capricious, and terrible gods, which was why the witch had trapped them in the cards.
Tella shuddered at the thought that Legend might be like them. During the last Caraval, her interactions with Fates like the Undead Queen, Her Handmaidens, and the Prince of Hearts had almost left her dead. She didn’t want Legend to be in the same category. But she couldn’t deny the fact that Legend was immortal and magical—and that made him something more akin to a Fate than it did to a human.
Tella desperately tried to hear what the weakness was. But Legend didn’t reveal it with his response.
“There has to be another way,” he said.
“If there is, you’ll have to find it out on your own. Or, you could remain here with me. The Fates don’t know I’ve come to this world. If you stay, it will be like it was when I taught you how
to master your powers.” She purred. Actually purred.
Tella really did hate her.
Black thorns ripped the freezing feathers from her skirt as she lost her battle with restraint and rose from her crouch to peek through the window once again. And this time she wished she hadn’t.
Legend was on his knees before the witch and she was running her fingers through his dark hair, moving them possessively down his scalp to his neck, as if he belonged to her.
“I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” said Legend.