Through a Tangled Wood

“Adi nu’um vit nara—”

  A breeze disturbed the still air to rustle the pages of Lucia’s book. Lucia didn’t bother to smile. Yes, the incantation had worked, but it was nothing impressive. Nothing new. Nothing beyond the same basic exercise she had practiced in this square of grass behind her parents’ bakery a thousand times before.

  She bit her lip in concentration. If she changed the inflection, maybe, and combined these words with a piece taken from one of the book’s other far-too-elementary spells…

  “Adi nu’um vit nara ianne ke—”

  The breeze stopped.

  Lucia scowled at the pages, as if they could be blamed for her failure. If only she had a better book. If only she… In a gesture she had repeated at least once every day for as long as she could remember, she cast a longing gaze north, at the tower barely visible in the distance. Qurilan Mari—the Mages’ Tower. Her own futile dream, the dream she couldn’t banish from her mind.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Slow and heavy—her father. She slammed the book closed and pushed herself to her feet.

  As he stopped, she scowled, clutching the book to her chest protectively. “I’ve finished the afternoon’s work. You said that in my free time I could—”

  Her father held up a hand to stop her. Only then did she notice the grayish tint to his face, the grim line of his lips. “I have something to tell you.”

  “What happened?” She tensed, instantly ashamed of her initial reaction. “Is anyone hurt?” Her mother… her sister… Fear sank sharp teeth into her heart.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” He hesitated. His voice took on a formal cast, as if he wanted to distance himself from the words. “We’ve found a way to send you to Qurilan Mari. You will leave today. There are men inside waiting to escort you.”

  Qurilan Mari.

  The words echoed through her, replacing her thoughts, replacing her heartbeat. The words, and everything they meant. Days filled with nothing but silence and study. Instruction from the most talented mages in the kingdom. The chance to finally, finally, learn something beyond the rudimentary lessons she had practiced for years.

  But the Mages’ Tower had never been within her reach. Magic was a rich man’s lark; Qurilan Mari was not for bakers’ daughters. Her parents would need magic of their own to make the Tower accept her—and even if they could, why would they? Hadn’t they told her time and time again that her dreams did nothing but distract her from her work?

  “Qurilan Mari,” she repeated, to be sure she hadn’t misunderstood. “How?”

  Her father avoided her gaze. “They’re waiting.” He started toward the bakery, motioning her to follow.

  If she were the daughter her parents deserved, she would have asked him what had caused the blood to drain from his cheeks, and why he wouldn’t meet her eyes. She would have asked him what he had given up to make this happen. She would have insisted he not make this sacrifice, whatever it was, for her sake. But she was selfish, and the thought of giving up her dream now that it had landed so impossibly close to her grasp sealed her lips shut. Shame flushed her face as she followed him through the bakery and into the back room. But she remained silent.

  Her mother sat in her customary chair, tears staining her face. She flinched away from Lucia as if the sight of her daughter hurt her. Beside her, Lucia’s sister Marisela tilted her chin up with a superior smirk. She started to speak; their mother silenced her with a sharp squeeze of her hand.

  Two men leaned against the far wall. Their armor gleamed silver in the sunlight that poured through the window; the jewels set into the pommels of their swords shone just as brightly.

  Swords?

  She spoke the question aloud before she could stop herself. “What do mages need with swords?”

  “Mages?” repeated one of the men, a stormy expression crossing his face. “Are you trying to insult us?”

  The other man spoke at the same moment, his voice as bewildered as Lucia’s own. “What do soldiers need with magic?”

  Fear prickled up Lucia’s spine.

  Qurilan Mari had no soldiers.

  She squinted at the men—and there it was, painted across their chests, plainly obvious if only she hadn’t been too blinded by dreams to see. The sigil of the Crown.

  These men had nothing to do with Qurilan Mari.

  Her parents were handing her over to the king’s soldiers.

  She whirled to her mother, then to her father, a million questions in her eyes. Her mother only wept harder. Her father looked away as he mumbled an answer. “They heard of your beauty. They said the kingdom needed you. We had no choice.”

  Confusion, for a brief moment, covered the knife wound of betrayal. “They heard of my beauty? Are you joking? If you had said they’d heard of my strangeness, I would believe it, but in all my life I’ve never heard anyone talk about my beauty. Marisela is the one—”

  She stopped as the knife pierced her heart a second time.

  Her voice went flat. “You’re offering me in Marisela’s place.”

  “You’re every bit as beautiful as your sister,” her father assured her, as if that were what mattered. “You’ll serve the kingdom well. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m the one you can afford to be rid of, is that it?” Pain sharpened her words. “The one who won’t accept her place. The one people talk about.”

  “We love you, Lucia,” her mother said through her tears.

  Neither of them looked at her.

  “You’ve said your goodbyes,” the stormy-faced soldier said, already striding to the door. “It’s time to go.”

  Half of her wanted to run into her father’s arms and beg him to protect her.

  Half of her wanted to scream, I’m glad to be rid of you!

  So she said nothing, did nothing, as the soldiers led her away.