Page 3 of Minor Works of Meda

“I’ll cast the old one, then–” I started.

“This is not the time for unpredictable play. Get out. The next time you start experimenting without permission, I’ll start looking for a new assistant.” She said each word loud and slowly, as if I wouldn’t understand her otherwise. “You have wasted enough of my time.”

The pain in my chest kept stabbing. I wrapped my arms around myself, turned, and fled.

The last thing I saw was the smirk on Kalcedon’s face.

Chapter 2

My favorite place to go when the world turned terrible was the top of Eudoria’s tower. Lying flat on the stones with my curly hair loose around my head, I rolled my knuckles back and forth against my jaw and stared at the shimmer of the Ward above me.

Three hundred and twenty-seven years ago the Sorrowing Lord, who ruled the fae lands just outside our isles, demanded a human woman to become his wife. But the woman had been the lover of the faerie Tarelay Sorrowsworn. Tarelay could not outright deny his Lord’s commands, but could only circumvent them. So before the Sorrowing Lord could collect her, Tarelay crafted the great Ward around our island kingdoms.

Rather than see her in another’s arms, Tarelay had sealed her off behind a barrier that nobody with fae blood could cross, in either direction—himself included. He’d cast the full-blooded fae from the isles, but some of those with mixed blood—witches—remained inside. After three hundred and twenty-seven years without new fae blood, not counting the tragedy of Kalcedon’s existence, there weren’t many strong bloodlines left inside the Ward. One day magic here might just be a memory.

But it was beautiful. Far above me Tarelay’s spell glittered across the sky, like the side of a massive pearlescent bubble of soap. Three hundred and twenty-seven years of self-sustaining perfection, suspended between the seven Ward-stones surrounding the Protectorate, one for each country that had existed when Tarelay wove the enchantment. The greatest spell of our age, and to this day nobody had the slightest idea how it worked.

Well, nobody inside of it. I watched a flock of small black birds soar overhead, little shadows against the streaks of pink and purple flashing in the sky above. My skin felt sore from where my knuckles jammed into it.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs heralded a visitor. I didn’t look to see who it was. I already knew, as the heat of his power roiled off Kalcedon. I could feel him even though he was a good twenty feet away from me. It was nothing like standing close to him, or having him touch me, but he was that powerful.

The footsteps stopped as he reached the top, spilling his tall shadow across my face.

“The warship is headed to the Temple in peace,” Kalcedon told me flatly. “They’re turning that general over. Zaraen.”

I stared up at the Ward, then blinked. My hands stayed pressed against my jaw.

“The one who killed all those people?”

“I thought you’d want to know. Since you didn’t get to see it.”

“To trade for that prince?”

Kalcedon nodded, drawing a deep breath. “Yes, they’ll bring their prince home. Seems odd to care now, after leaving him there so long.”

Kalcedon had been Eudoria’s apprentice for practically his whole life, all thirty-eight years of it. He’d been there during the Doregall killings, and when the Cachian Temple took the boy-prince hostage. I expect Kalcedon had seen all the horrors spill, in that great big scrying bowl.

“…Did you already send the message?” I asked tentatively, wondering if there might be more magic to perform.

“Me, all on my own? Without your help?” Kalcedon said caustically. “Yes, idiot. Of course I did.”

He was in one of his moods.

“I was only asking,” I muttered, and turned my head away from him. I rocked my knuckles against my jaw again.

Kalcedon sighed loudly, then approached me. His long legs crossed as he settled to the ground.

“Meda. You shouldn’t have said that. About me.”

“What?”

I turned slowly and looked at him, dropping my hand away from my face. Kalcedon shook his head a little, shaggy dark hair blowing in the salt breeze. I could smell the rosemary soap he’d used to wash his hands.

“You made it sound like I needed help, holding onto spells.” His voice was gruff.

“Sometimes you do. You dropped that one.”

“I get bored.” He glared at me, mouth turning down at the edges. “It’s not the same. ‘Even Kalcedon won’t have trouble holding it in place,’” he quoted in a high mockery of my voice. “As if you could begin to match me.”

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