I can't sleep. My cottage in the royal grounds feels too exposed following today's council meeting. Lady Revira's threat echoes in my mind—village witches meeting their ends in fire. The silver light of our hybrid roses sends odd shadows on my walls, gorgeous yet disturbing in their otherworldliness.
I should be preparing for tomorrow's testing, but how does one prepare for the unknown? Balthren is given only hazy explanations of magical assessment rites, claiming each examination is specially designed for the subject's talents.
A quiet tap at my window startles me from anxious thoughts. I take my gardening knife—pitiful protection but better than nothing—before carefully approaching.
"Who's there?" I whisper.
"It's Elm," comes the anxious reply. "Let me in quickly, before her guards see."
I unlatch the window, and the head gardener slips through with astonishing agility for a man his age. His usually tidy appearance is unkempt, gray hair wild, eyes darting wildly around my cabin.
"They're coming for the gardens tonight," he pants, leaning against my table. "Not tomorrow. Revira lied to the council."
My heart smashes against my ribs. "What do you mean?" "I overheard her with her inner circle. She's arranged a 'cleaning ritual' at midnight—less than one hour from now." Elm's aged hands shake. "They intend to sever the magical connection between Prince Thorne and the gardens."
"That's not possible," I respond, though worry seeps into my voice. "The royal magic is bound to the land itself."
"That's exactly why it's so dangerous," Elm answers. "Severing such links could destroy what remains of the wards totally. And..." He hesitates, eyes seeking mine. "They believe you're an obstacle as well. You're supposed to remain 'contained' during the ritual."
The knife in my palm suddenly feels even more inadequate. "I need to warn Thorne."
"The royal corridors are teeming with Revira's admirers. The prince is being observed." Elm moves to my small herb cupboard, bringing out a jar. "Crush these under your boots as you walk—ghost mint obscures magical signatures. It won't cover you totally, but it might be enough."
I change quickly into darker clothes, sliding my knife into my belt and the precious jar of herbs into my pocket. "What about you?"
"I'll create a distraction in the eastern gardens. Most of her followers don't know me by sight—I'm simply another servant to them." Elm's smile is bleak. "Be careful, youngster. The court has picked sides now, and there's no third ground left."
I slide out the back window, crushing the ghost mint beneath my feet as instructed. Its harsh, cold aroma rises about me like morning mist. The gardens at night have always been my haven, but today they feel like a battleground waiting for the first arrow to fly.
The servants' route gets me closest to Thorne's quarters without crossing the main halls. Twice I freeze in alcoves as guards patrol past, their uniforms displaying Lady Revira's purple ribbon—a tacit declaration of fealty. Neither patrol notices me, the ghost mint doing its work.
A clock tower chimes the quarter hour somewhere in the city beyond the palace walls. Forty-five minutes until midnight. My pulse quickens.
When I reach the concealed door that leads to the royal wing, I find it sealed and guarded. Two of Revira's men stand at attention, barring the only direct access to Thorne. I bite my lip, evaluating alternatives. Going around would take too long.
From my belt bag, I pull a handful of dormant seedpods I'd been cultivating—harmless by day but receptive to moonlight. I chuck them down the passage away from the entrance. As midnight approaches, the garden's ambient enchantment gets stronger, and the pods explode with a flurry of shimmering pollen.
The guards exchange looks before one approaches to investigate. One is better than two, but still a barrier. Inspiration hits when I remember a trick my mother taught me—not magic, just clever gardening. I grab the ghost mint, crush it between my fingers, and blow it toward the last guard.
The strong fragrance hits him. He sneezes once, twice, then a fit of them overtakes him. In his distraction, I slip past and use my garden key—one that opens most service doors in the palace—on the lock.
The royal wing is oddly quiet. At Thorne's door, I discover no guards—either a godsend or a trap. I knock softly, then more urgently when there's no response.
"Thorne," I whisper forcefully at the keyhole. "It's me."
The door swings open, showing not the prince but Balthren, the court mage. His countenance turns from wariness to relief.
"Quickly," he adds, dragging me inside.
Thorne stands by the window, moonlight silvering his features. He turns swiftly upon my entry, tension visibly leaving his shoulders when he recognizes me.
"What are you doing here?" he says, yet without actual anger. "The palace isn't safe for you tonight."
"It's happening now," I rush out. "Revira's ritual—they're coming for the gardens at midnight, not waiting for tomorrow's council decision."
Balthren mutters a curse. "I feared as much when my wards detected growing shadow magic near the western perimeter."
"What kind of ritual?" Thorne asks, already rushing to wear his formal jacket, the one laced with protective sigils.
"Elm said they plan to sever your connection to the gardens." My voice catches. "It could destroy what's left of the wards."
"Or worse," Balthren says ominously. "Such magic could backfire catastrophically, affecting not just the prince's connection but his life force as well."
Thorne buckles on his ceremonial sword—functional despite its extravagant appearance. "We need to reach the key nexus before they do. If they damage that connecting point where all the garden sections meet—" "—they control the entire magical network," I conclude, our minds working in tandem now.
The clock tower chimes the half-hour. Thirty minutes to midnight.
"The direct paths will be watched," Balthren replies, strolling to a bookcase and pulling a specific volume. The shelf falls aside, revealing a tiny path. "The ancient monarch was paranoid—had escape routes created throughout the palace. This one leads beneath the grounds."
We hurry into the passage, Balthren shutting it behind us. The tunnel is black until Thorne runs his hand along the wall, frost spreading from his fingertips. The ice catches what little light exists, illuminating our way with a frigid blue glare.
"Did Elm mention who's performing this ritual?" Thorne asks as we navigate the confined passageway.
"He didn't specify, but it must be Revira herself. She's the only one with enough power besides you and Balthren."
The mage shakes his head. "She's not working alone. I've sensed foreign magic these last weeks—someone brought in from outside. Someone who specializes in dissolving magical ties."
My blood runs cold. "A shadow mage? Those are outlawed in all seven kingdoms."
"Desperate people take desperate measures," Thorne answers, his voice taut. "My cousin feels I'm murdering Thornwall slowly. In her mind, anything is justified to stop me."
We approach a juncture where the tunnel splits three ways. Balthren gestures to the rightmost path. "This emerges near the fountain in the central garden." As we approach the end of the tunnel, I feel it—a wrongness in the air, a discordant note in the garden's usual magical harmony. The hybrid plants we've been raising are screaming in despair; I can hear their pain even through the dirt above us.
"They've started early," I gasp, holding my chest where an echoing anguish grows. "The gardens—they're already being damaged."
Thorne's face hardens. "Stay behind me when we emerge." To Balthren: "Be ready with counter-wards."
The trapdoor above us opens to expose the night sky, stars hidden by weird storm clouds gathering with inconceivable speed. The silver-white roses we fashioned are withering before our eyes, their brilliance dimming.
In the center of the garden clearing stands Lady Revira, but she's changed. Purple-black energy courses around her hands as she directs a circle of robed figures in chanting. Above them floats a throbbing ball of shadow magic, tentacles extending downward into the earth like twisted roots.
"Stop!" Thorne's voice breaks with authority as we emerge from the tunnel.
Revira turns, her smile victorious. "Too late, cousin. The purging has begun."
As if in reaction, the strange storm breaks. Black rain begins to fall, scorching where it meets our hybrid flowers. The western ward, already the weakest, crumbles with an audible magical crack.
And through the breach, black figures flood into Thornwall.