Page 134 of Cursed Crowns

But Rose couldn’t tear her gaze from her fallen soldiers. “They need a healer, Chapman. I should be down there, helping them.”

“Absolutely not!” Chapman seized her other arm, as though he was afraid she would launch herself off the balcony. “You’ll only be a liability. You have to stay inside the palace, where it’s safe.”

“Chapman is right,” said Thea. “I’ll go down instead.”

“No,” said Rose at once. It was far too dangerous. “I need you here.”

At Chapman’s insistence, they retreated into the throne room where they watched the battle for Anadawn go from bad to worse.

The Arrows eventually fought their way through the cavalry and pushed north. Soon, their shouts reached Rose on the wind.

She pressed her nose against the glass. “They’re climbing the barricades! Don’t they see the spikes?”

Thea exhaled through her teeth. Her calm demeanour had begun to slip. “They see them. They just don’t care. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”

Captain Davers opened the gates, sending out six hundred foot soldiers to beat the advancing Arrows back. The tempests brewed another gust, but after hours of casting, their power was all but spent. Rowena swayed on her feet, Grady narrowly catching her before she hit the ground. A volley of arrows sailed over the wall, striking the balcony where Rose had been standing. Another narrowly missed Bryony, while one fell into the fountain, its flame going out in a curl of smoke.

Rose was so busy watching the Arrows wound themselves on the barricades that she almost missed the small red-haired girl who burst out of the palace and went scurrying across the courtyard.

“Tilda!” she shouted, but she was too far from Rose, and on a mission of her own. As the Arrows hurled themselves over the barricades and ran straight into another thicket of soldiers, Tilda clambered up onto the ramparts and went to Rowena.

“What on earth is she doing?” said Thea. “She’s not a tempest!”

Tilda was lugging a sack with her. She set it down beside Rowena, then reached in and pulled out a potato, before firing it straight at the Arrows.

Rowena braced herself on the stone wall, laughing as Tilda fired another. And then another and another.

“TILDA!” screamed Rose. “FALL BACK THIS INSTANT!”

But the young witch wound her arm round and round, firing another potato.

Rowena crowed in delight as it soared over the wall.

Rose crushed her fingernails into her palms. Tilda’s aim was impeccable, but Cam’s old potatoes were no match for the ferocious anger of the Arrows, especially considering the speed with which they were running through her poor foot soldiers.

Some had already broken through the fray and managed to reach the outer wall of the palace. The enchanters leaped into action, close enough now to cast their spells. The first two Arrows to reach the wall fell back from it and began to fight each other.

“Clever,” muttered Rose, as the next group turned on each other, too. Another man fell to the ground and began furiously licking the grass, while the woman beside him flung her sword away and started doing cartwheels.

Yet still more arrows flew higher, brighter.

Rose stiffened as a rippling scream rang out.

It had come from Tilda. Time seemed to slow as she watched the young girl collapse, an arrow embedded in her shoulder. It was still flaming. Rowena stood over her, shouting for help, but the rest of the tempests were too spent to move. The enchanters were overrun with Arrows climbing up the walls, and down in the courtyard, not a single soldier broke rank to fetch the stricken young witch.

But that didn’t matter. Tilda didn’t need a soldier; she needed a healer.

Rose fled the throne room at once.

She was glad to be wearing a pair of Wren’s trousers as she took the stairs three at a time, sprinting down one hallway and then another, until the courtyard was before her. The palace guards tried to stop her, but she ordered them aside.

She hurried toward the ramparts as a chorus of cries filled the air. It was underpinned by the clash of steel on steel, and the crack and whistle of burning arrows soaring overhead. They rained down on Rose like amber tears, but she paid them no mind. If she started worrying about herself, she’d never get to Tilda.

When Rose reached the ramparts, the other witches pulled her up. She crawled to Tilda.

The young witch was curled into a ball at Rowena’s feet, the tempest using the last drop of her magic to cast a protective wind around her. Tilda’s face was as white as a sheet, her heart barely fluttering beneath Rose’s hands. Rose carefully removed the arrow, shivering at the slick of blood on the tip. She pressed down on the wound and closed her eyes, letting her magic flicker to life inside her.

She found the thread of Tilda’s life, short and golden, in the center of her mind, and reached for it. Her blood began to thrum, healing magic filtering through her and into the young witch, until, finally, after what felt like an age, Tilda opened her eyes.

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