She had always thoughtThe Compendiumspells long and laboriously slow, but in the hands of an expert like Darcy, they sprang seamlessly into being. Devereux was also usingThe Compendium, but his attacks were graceless spurts of activity. She had never watched Darcy performing actual magic. His movements were a graceful dance bringing words and magic together. She finally appreciated the importance of the exercises he practiced daily. She was watching a master mage in action.
No wonder he kept pushing her to learnThe Compendium. She would never be able to do what he was doing, though, no matter how much she tried.The Compendiumhad become a part of him. He had made it his own, blending the spells with his own unique Talent. She could see her own admiration mirrored in the eyes of all the mages around them, and she felt a burst of pride for this remarkable stranger who was her husband.
It did not take Devereux long to shake off the Crystal spell. An Axing spell shattered the crystals into tiny shards. As they fell to the ground, Devereux swung the same axe towards Darcy. It came hurtling through the air, ready to plant itself into Darcy’s shoulder.
Darcy sidestepped it with a spin, his defenses surrounding the axe and turning it into a soft ball. It bounced on the grass, then rolled away.
Elizabeth’s admiration grew. No wonder he was so arrogant. She regretted her own arrogance, and pride that had prevented her from seeing how much she could learn from him.
It was clear that Darcy was going to win. It was simply a matter of discovering how swiftly he would accomplish it. The duel would be over in a few minutes.
As if to mock her, a sudden surge of magic began to form from Devereux’s direction. She blinked in surprise. His magical signature seemed different now. There was no doubting the power of magic inside him, but it was not the same. Puzzled, she reached out to find traces of Devereux’s original magic, to see if she was mistaken. It was difficult to tell in the open air, where magic tended to dissipate easily, but she persisted, searching for the old scent.
She found it imprinted on the brick walls, already starting to fade. She had not imagined it then. It was as if Devereux had two different types of magic.
She focused her full attention on Devereux. Everyone else was watching Darcy, waiting for him to put an end to the duel. Devereux’s eyes had a glazed look to them, and his face was grey. His movements were heavier than before, but she could feel the magic roiling inside him as he prepared for a strike.
It was clear that Devereux was drawing on someone else’s magic. The duel was not going to end very quickly after all. Darcy was in danger.
She tried to locate the source, but it was partly cloaked. What little she could trace felt oddly familiar. She could not quite place it, but she had felt a brush of it before. It tickled the back of her mind, bringing up unpleasant memories.
Then everything fell into place. Her stomach heaved as she realized who it had to be. The garden was not Warded, and there was only one person who could achieve something like this. Ramon de Riquer.
It had to be him. She should never have trusted him. Now he was going to destroy Darcy, with Devereux as his puppet. Next he would turn on her, using Devereux so no one would suspect him.
Darcy was murmuring a spell, oblivious to the fact that he was fighting not one mage but two.
She glanced quickly around at the faces of the spectators, not wanting to take her glance off Darcy in case she missed something crucial. No one had noticed that Devereux was cheating. They were intently watching the duelists.
Should she warn Darcy? He had asked her not to interfere. Should she respect Darcy’s wishes, no matter what? What if she distracted him just as Devereux struck?
The decision was taken from her. Suddenly the fiery magic lashed out, like a whip, and struck at Darcy. He remained calm, bringing up a shield of magic like a seasoned soldier at the battlefield, but the lash cut through it like a knife in butter. The Ward Darcy had set up around himself split in two, and began to break away, leaving him exposed and at Devereux’s mercy.
Elizabeth’s eyes were glued in horror to Darcy. Always in control, always so dignified, his eyes widened in shock. He was muttering more quickly now, rebuilding the shield, but he was running out of time.
Another lash of magic. The whip tore through the newly formed shield. It slashed into Darcy’s neck and his collar was stained with blood.
Elizabeth could feel the force of the magic that was building up again. She could not tell if Devereux was being coerced by the French mage, or if he had agreed to it, but it was now hard to distinguish the two strands of magic from each other.
Darcy had not given up. He was using a different spell now, creating a membrane that formed a bubble. She knew the spell, and it was working. Elizabeth’s hope began to rise as she saw it thicken and take on the form of clear shell that surrounded him. She and Darcy had practiced it together, and she could testify that the shell was very strong.
But not quite strong enough to withstand the force of the fiery bolt that came whizzing towards Darcy, the combined attack of two powerful Elemental mages. He was a standing target, with his Wards in tatters.
Did the others not see what was happening? It may be honorable to duel to the death, but not when there was an enemy mage intent on killing Darcy.
“STOP!” she cried. There was a pause, and the lash of the whip held back. Devereux’s eyes were bulging, the muscles in his neck were swollen with effort, his entire body tortured with strain. He was trying to stop the magic that was invading him.
“Remove her from the garden!” snarled Sudbury, who was looking pale. “Who allowed this woman to attend?”
Matlock strode over to her and took her arm firmly.
Elizabeth stood her ground. “Can no one see what is happening here? Mr. Devereux is possessed.”
She looked towards Darcy. Matlock held her back, his grip no longer gentle. Darcy was shaking his head at her, his eyes entreating her to stop.
Her shoulders slumped. It was no good protesting. No one would listen.
She turned to Matlock. “You do not understand. Mr. Devereux—”
