Page 27 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

My magic tells me what it is before my eyes can make sense of it. This is no living thing, the substance cutting through earth and wood like a knife. I recognize the feel of it in my soul, having only handled something similar hours before: cold, hard iron.

The fae feel it too, screams ripping from their mouths from pain as much as fear as waves of them throw themselves backwards, away from the onslaught. Their chairs clatter to the ground, and I watch in horror as the iron splits into separate shoots, slicing through the edge of their tables, appearing to chase after them.

Halima and Ruskin leap to their feet beside me, both looking ready to charge into action, while Destan—perhaps in the smartest move—shouts to point out the exits to the panicked fae. Ruskin swiftly waves his hand, but realization dawns on his face when his magic does nothing. In response, he takes a step closer to the metal spreading its tendrils across the room.

“Don’t!” I grab Ruskin’s sleeve, and his eyes lower to meet mine. Halima hears me and hesitates too. Even a few steps closer and the iron could overwhelm them. As it is, they’re already looking paler, beads of sweat forming at their temples.

“It’s cold iron,” I say, though I doubt they haven’t realized that by now. “It too dangerous for you.”

I shove Ruskin back, towards the nearest exit. High Fae are already streaming through it, but they aren’t the only ones who were in the orchard. The servants—Low Fae and human—are also rushing to escape. I watch in disgust as lords and ladies shove them aside to make way for themselves, with some of the smaller Low Fae getting trampled underfoot, their skulls smacking against the ground.

I’m about to turn and shout an instruction to Halima, but she gets there first.

“I’ll help the servants!” she calls, and I nod gratefully, then hitch my skirt up and run towards the spreading iron. We were sat at the table furthest from the iron’s entry point, but it’s advanced halfway across the dining hall now. A tall High Fae a few yards ahead of me tries to scramble over a table, away from an aggressive shoot of the deadly metal. It doesn’t deviate from its path, spearing through the spot where he’s perched, impaling him from his hip right through to his opposite shoulder in an awful spurt of crimson. His scream is quickly drowned out by the gargles of blood, thick trails of it spilling from his mouth as he convulses upon the iron, dying slowly, his eyes rolling back into his head so only the whites are visible.

I want to look away, to be sick, but there’s no time for that. I raise my hands, trying to find the surface of my magic and still it as Ruskin taught me. I risk closing my eyes, but it doesn’t help me gather my thoughts, not with so many screams still rattling around me.

When I open them again, I see a Low Fae at the other end of the hall knocked back by the jabbing elbow of a well-dressed fae trying to flee. The servant stumbles just in time for one of the iron shoots to stab her through the foot, pinning her in place. She falls properly, thrown off balance, and the iron seems to consume her, twining around her body as blood seeps from beneath its embrace.

The sheer horror of it awakens a sharp instinct of determination within me. It’s the same urge that’s helped me marshal my magic in the past—knocking knives out of the attacker’s hands, transforming chains. It’s like a voice in my head saying, This will not be the thing that kills me. I won’t let it. I throw my power forward now, pushing back against the iron where it’s still curling its way out of the ground. I try to take possession of it, command it like the gold in my workshop and the iron in Evanthe. The pool of my magic stills then, of its own accord, and at last I can see the image I want to make reality—bringing the creeping metal to a standstill and dulling its deadly prongs.

I hold on to the picture with a deathlike grip, willing it into being. The force beating against me lessens a fraction and I feel a presence behind me, knowing straight away that it’s Ruskin. Of course he hasn’t left. I can feel his usually steady, strong body shaking slightly at my back. The quantity of this iron is too much even for him with all his High King powers. I use this knowledge, my concern for his safety, as motivation, redoubling my efforts.

Two, three minutes pass…then the burn of hard-won satisfaction gradually sets in as I watch the iron slow, movement seeping away until it settles, still, where it lies.

I release the grip on my magic, panting with exertion, and only now becoming aware of Ruskin’s hands wrapped around my upper arms. For a moment, I don’t remember the wall of hurt that exists between him and me. I relax into his hold, taking a second of comfort. But it doesn’t last long. My mind drifts from the sensation of having him so close and the world takes the opportunity to rush back in.

I tighten my muscles and step away, turning round to see who remains in the orchard. Halima and Destan are still by the exit with a handful of staff and a couple of nobles, helping to drag out those who’ve been trampled or who have collapsed, weakened by their proximity to the iron. Their faces are ashen and their bodies quivering as Halima picks up two at the same time, carrying them away.

We spill out into the palace corridors, where a crowd of fae are still shoving their way towards a courtyard on the other side of the orchard, trying to put distance between themselves and what’s just happened.

“The spread of the iron has been stopped,” Ruskin announces. I see the flash of a familiar pale green uniform, and note that the healers are already here, tending to those hurt in the crush, but if anyone pierced by the iron survived, they won’t be able to help them. The thought makes me turn to Ruskin.

“What about those who came into contact with the metal? Are any of them injured, anyone with iron shards that needs to be removed? I could help with that.”

The message is passed through the crowd, but no one comes forward.

“How can that be?” I murmur to myself, then, because I know it’s safe for me, I turn and re-enter the orchard, despite Ruskin’s protests.

We’d left in a hurry, and now as I take in the sight of it, I’m even more appalled.

The metal litters the space. Thick, gray cords of it have penetrated everything in its path. It’s left the furniture of the room either upturned or broken, and many of the trees in the orchard now lean at odd angles, nearly uprooted by the attack.

The worst part is the bodies. Now I can see why there aren’t any survivors carrying iron shards. Those that came into contact with the iron were slaughtered by it. Their bleeding corpses hang like horrible scarecrows, draped across the shoots of iron that killed them, or, if they’d already fallen, they’ve been buried beneath its heavy limbs. I see more than one hand or foot poking out from beneath its tendrils.

I return to the crowd outside, the court numbers thinning out as its members seek medical help or retreat to their own quarters.

I see Ruskin beside Evanthe, who looks shaken, but more collected than many of those around her. I suppose as a leader she’s used to weathering a crisis, and I admire her composure as she directs a dazed High Fae with a bloody nose towards a healer.

“Come,” Ruskin says when he sees me, gesturing to Destan and Halima as well. “We need privacy.”

In the library, Ruskin paces while Halima and Destan stand, quiet. I guess they’re used to their friend’s brooding. Ruskin occasionally throws glances at Evanthe, as if expecting her to speak first, but she sat down in an armchair as soon as we came in and hasn’t moved since. When I look at her now, I think she looks very tired, even more than I feel. It can hardly be the welcome back she’d hoped for, especially when it seems she’s not yet at full strength. It occurs to me that her injury might have left her more sensitive to iron than the other fae. Even if she hadn’t gotten especially close to it tonight, it still might have been enough to drain her of energy.

I lick my lips, deciding to break the silence.

“I can’t be sure it was me,” I say.

Four sets of eyes land on me.

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