Is this what Dieter wants? Because this is—
Intoxicating.
The thought almost makes me stumble, but it’s Fritzi, her calm, true connection to magic that keeps me going. This power washing over me, it’s good, but it’s good because it’shers, and it’s good because shegivesit.
Taking it?
Acid roils in my throat at the thought.
It is the gift, the consent, the shared nature of the magic that makes it valuable. It is not the magic itself. It’s that it’shersand that she gives it freely.
I feel her presence as I fight, even though she’s moved to the far wall; she’s leaning against it as if out of breath. I’m draining her. I cannot let her sacrifice of strength be in vain.
Alois looks at me from behind his statue. He and Cornelia are working together, his sword and her magic in perfect harmony as they parry every blow. I had hoped to attack from behind, but the statue turns, deflecting the blow with such power that I slam back into the table, my head cracking in a teeth-jarring slam. Alois shouts, lunging forward, butthe statue pivots, throwing him back as well. I push up, knowing that it’s only Fritzi’s strength that helps me stand now, none of mine.
I can’t force the statue back; I can’t do more than parry and dodge its blows, an onslaught of attacks. It swings its free arm wide, knocking Alois on the head, and the man crumples. I hear Cornelia scream his name, and I pray he’s only knocked out, not dead. I cannot turn to check; already, the statue is driving down on me, walloping me with its sword, stroke after stroke, giving me no room to advance.
And then it deftly swings up, twists, catches my hilt despite the curve, and my sword goes flying, clattering useless against the table with the banquet feast, knocking over goblets of dried-up wine and skidding through mold-covered platters that splatter stinking rot.
I feel for my jacket, my sleeves, but no weapon is within reach, not now, not as the statue drives me farther and farther against the wall in the tightly contained space.
My eyes flick to the first statue, the one that only watches. His golden torque had three spikes. Two are now sandstone orange; only one still glows golden.
The statue I’m fighting slams a fist, and I duck only just in time, dirt and pebbles cascading over me.
I have no weapon. My enemy knows no pain and will never stop.
Unless I force him to.
I reach for Fritzi, feel her reaching back to me.
If I fail, I have drained her of her magic, and I have left her without protection.
I. Will.Not.Fail.
My back’s against the wall. I kick up with both feet, slamming my boots into the statue’s torso. It doesn’t fall back.
Good. I didn’t want it to.
I use the pressure to walk my feet over its chest, then push against the wall, wrapping my legs around the statue’s neck. With strength that I know is not mine, I pull my body up, wrenching my arms on either side of the statue’s enormous mistletoe headdress made of stone, and Itwist.
I feel the sandstone cracking beneath my grip. I feel the rock splintering, like bones popping, and Ipull, I twist and pull until I take the damn thing’s head off with my bare hands, and then, heaving with exertion, the statue crumbles beneath me, shattering, its stone head nothing but dust in my sweaty palms as I land on the ground.
Fritzi rushes to me. “Are you—” she starts, but I point behind her, unable to catch enough breath to warn her.
The last statue, the one with straw stuck into it, steps forward, facing us. Fritzi whirls around, and I push up from the ground, dragging my dusty sword into a defensive stance.
The fight is not over.
But Fritzi puts her hand out, pushes my sword arm down.
I can feel that she’s weaker now than before, but the last statue isn’t fighting back. Instead, it holds its arms up, and all the bits of straw that had been stuck in it fly up, swirling in a tornado of glinting flecks until it all coalesces in the statue’s outstretched palm, turning into…
“The air stone,” Fritzi says, eyes on the rock in its grip.
20
Fritzi
