Claire tried to lighten the mood as she leant against Kiera’s bedroom wall. She’d gone to Kiera’s room after dinner, seeking her out to get her to talk to Maen and Rael about teaching Claire the magic Kelt had used to create the Rift. Yet Kiera had bustled about the room, saying little the whole time Claire attempted small talk.

“That’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” Claire said, indicating the plate of paste and bread on the dresser table that she’d tentatively tried a portion of in her own room. It was a custom of the Maellwyns to eat a light second supper in their private quarters.

Kiera pursed her lips and continued to fold the covers back on her bed.

“The lady that left it said it’s made from palila, a fish with a strong flavour. I’ve never heard of it before, have you?” Claire went on desperately. Why was this so difficult?

Kiera continued to studiously ignore Claire.

“She showed me a picture. This palila fish—it looks like a rainbow fish from my world.”

As minutes passed in strained silence, Claire felt her patience lessen and her face began to flush with annoyance. She’d noticed Kiera had been quiet on the journey to the Maellwyns, but she’d been civil, so Claire had assumed her behaviour could be explained by grief. Now, Kiera was acting like she was upset with her, which was plain weird; Claire hadn’t done anything wrong.

Kiera sat on the plain wooden bed, a piece of bread in her hands. She cleared her throat. “There is something I don’t understand,” she said, looking directly up at Claire. “Maen said you were sulking in a stable at the Manor and that’s why none of us could find you during the battle. Why did you hide instead of joining the fight?”

“I … I …” Claire fished for a good response as she shifted uneasily from foot to foot. She couldn’t explain what had happened without having to answer some very awkward questions.

“I don’t understand,” Kiera repeated, sounding bewildered and a little angry. “Maybe if you’d helped, you’d have saved lives. I know you’re young, but until now I’d have said you were brave, too.”

“I was angry about what my great-uncle had told me, and I was confused about what was happening outside,” Claire lied nervously. “I’m not proud of it, but it meant I survived.”

“So many others didn’t,” Kiera whispered, letting the bread fall into her lap, “when with your magical ability to help them they might have lived.”

“I couldn’t have resisted that many men. Even Maen said it was impossible.”

Kiera’s head was in her hands and her shoulders shook with great sobs. “So many dead, just like that and the children … that was the worst part … their little bodies.”

Claire sat on the bed and put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. She understood some of Kiera’s horror. She’d seen the villages and Lotte’s camp, after all, and the terrible wrongness of it sat on her like a heavy cloak. Claire would find out who was responsible, and they’d pay for this; for hers, for Kiera’s, for Lotte’s losses, and for everyone cut off before their time. But first she had to deal with the Rift.

“You’re not angry with me,” she said softly. “Not really.”

Kiera straightened, her cheeks tear stained.

Claire gripped the older woman’s hand where it rested in her lap. “You know I’m going to fulfil the prophecy. Deep down you believe in me.” She hesitated, then decided to reveal the truth. “You believe in me more than I believe in myself. I’m afraid Kiera. I’m afraid I’ll get the spell wrong, I’m afraid more people will die, I’m afraid Eidan will do something terrible to Marcus long before I can get to Kelnariat, but more than all of that, I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t try.” She let out a long breath and released Kiera’s hand. “That’s why I came to speak with you. I need your help.”

“My help?” Kiera’s eyes widened, as she absentmindedly picked up the piece of bread again and started to tear it into tiny pieces.

“I’ve thought and thought about how to close the Rift.” Claire paced between the wall and the window, suddenly restless. “The prophecy never explained how I need to do it, just that I will and, well, the only thing that makes any logical sense is for me to reverse whatever Kelt did.”

“Rael said you spoke with Maen and Gwenivere in Autun about this,” Kiera said, brushing breadcrumbs onto the floor.

“Yes, and they wouldn’t listen. You’re disappointed in me, but you still trust me to get the job done in a way they don’t.” Claire spoke faster. “Nothing else makes sense. I need to learn how to wield hot and cold flames at the same time, which means someone must teach me.”

“I’m not the one to do it if that’s what you’re asking. I won’t go behind Maen’s back and I’m not as powerful as he is in any case.”

“No, that’s not it. I want you to persuade Maen that I need to learn.”

“They know it already,” Kiera admitted, “but they want Gwenivere to search for visions of the future in her bowl before they agree.”

“What?” Claire exclaimed, her voice rising to a near shout. “It’s too dangerous and we don’t have time to waste. How many people have been lost already? Didn’t Gwenivere say the Riftlands spread was speeding up? That by the end of the year half of Kelnarium will be desolate?”

“Hush,” Kiera said. “Yes, but—”

“And didn’t she also say that magic grows more and more volatile?” Claire continued, lowering her voice to a normal volume once more. “If we leave things too long, what if I’m unable to work any spell by the time we reach the Rift? Look, do you trust me or not?”

Kiera paused, considering. “I see the wisdom in what you say. I’ll speak to Maen tonight.”

Claire caught her up in a bear hug. “Oh, Kiera, you won’t regret it.”

***

Claire stood in a courtyard lined with trees and intricately carved archways, the sun beating down on them, ready for her lesson with Maen. Rael, Kiera and Meghan were off planning the next part of their journey and Lotte had decided to help them rather than watch Claire’s training session, but she still had a large audience. Not only were Maen and Gwenivere in attendance, but also Lord Maellwyn and his son, and Jemroth and Lord Maellwyn’s two other advisors, Kress and Sleath. At least she felt more comfortable with her newfound abilities given all the practice she’d had at Dorran Manor.

“Make sure you direct any spell to the centre of the tiles,” said Maen as he stepped closer to Claire. “We don’t want an accidental inferno,” he added, waving a hand to indicate the plants around the perimeter. “Now, the spell Kelt used is complex. It doesn’t matter if you don’t get it right away, but the main thing you need to remember is to concentrate. If you feel like you’re losing control, clap your hands or stamp your feet.”

“Will … will the Beast appear?” She’d managed to put the possibility to the back of mind on the journey to Maellwyn House but now she was training again, it could become a reality sooner rather than later. Part of her wanted to pull out, but then she thought of Marcus and her parents and her resolve hardened. She had to learn this. She was sure of it. Maybe the horrible thing would stay away.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But that’s why Gwenivere is overseeing things. She will protect you – and us. Now, what you must do is this: first, hold an image of your average hot flame in your mind and simultaneously overlay it with an image of something cold to produce ice. Once, you’ve done that—”

“That sounds hard.”

“Yes,” Maen replied steadily, “but anything worth the effort usually is. Where was I? Once you get the images in your mind, direct the spell where you want it to go and don’t get distracted, lest it ends up elsewhere. Got it?”

It took Claire over an hour to figure out how to hold multiple images in her mind at once without getting side-tracked and lighting one type of flame before the other or getting frustrated and thinking of other things. The spell was different too; though the smell of charred meat was the same, her whole body felt like it fizzed and bubbled, and it took Claire a while to put the odd feeling aside.

The sun was high in the sky by the time she managed to create two small flames side by side in the courtyard’s centre and she couldn’t help a crow of delight. What was Maen on about? she thought. This spell is a walk in the park. She was going to rescue Marcus, close the Rift and go home. She found the magic within her, more focussed and refined than usual, less stubborn to shape too. It felt good, like she’d gone for a run and struggled through the muscle pain to push herself harder than ever before. She straightened her spine, set her shoulders back. She had this in the bag.

And then her spell shattered like hard candy dropped onto asphalt.

“Hey, I was doing great,” she said, glaring at Maen. “I had everything under control, so why did you pull me back?”

He and Gwenivere were pale as they looked at each other. “It wasn’t us,” Gwenivere said. They glanced uncertainly towards Lord Maellwyn’s party.

Lord Maellwyn shook his head. “We didn’t do a thing,” he said. He smiled at Claire reassuringly. “You must have let the spell gutter out without realising. It’s natural when you’re tired. Let’s take a snack break.”

Claire didn’t feel the way she normally did when she was tired from working magic; her muscles weren’t tender and her eyes weren’t aching for one thing, but he was probably right. She couldn’t think of another explanation.

Sleath hurried forward with a bowl of flat bread and honeycomb. Claire ate quickly, keen to get back into the lesson. If she’d achieved so much in a morning, what couldn’t she achieve with more practice? She couldn’t wait to share the story of how her magic journey had unfolded with her family when she got home. She’d be able to tell Suranne about magic and spells and her mum would understand. It sucked that she’d lose her powers in Shale, the same as Suranne, but at least she’d have the memories.

Buoyed up by thoughts of home, Claire closed her eyes, got the images she needed in place and tried to generate, then aim the flame. She couldn’t do it. It was as though she’d hit a physical wall. She concentrated harder and tried pushing past it, but whatever was stopping her wouldn’t budge. Then, before she could clap her hands, something crashed through her memory pictures. It was the Beast.

It snarled and jeered, green-tinged brown and disgusting. With each laugh it grew bigger, filling her vision.

Before she could stop herself, she fell forwards into its wide mouth; a city, spider webs, men and women spinning silk, Eidan standing at a podium, all whirling along beside her. When her world righted, she was in a poorly lit cell. She reached out and touched Marcus, but a different Marcus to the one she knew, a Marcus in rusty chains at the neck, with lips covered in sores, his clothing ragged. Her heart twisted.

“He’ll die there,” the Beast chortled. “What will you tell your parents? What will you tell yourself?”

“No!” Claire screamed, though if it were out loud or in her head she couldn’t have said.

But the creature was gone.

She floated through emptiness, her body feeling weirdly separate to her mind, like she watched herself in a mirror. Had seconds or minutes passed? She couldn’t be sure. She was lovely and warm, at least, though her stomach felt hollow. Maybe she could stay here for a bit, free of obligations and cares. It would be easy to close her eyes, let the fuzzy blackness claim her, and she was so sleepy.

Wham.

Her cheek smarted.

“Stop!” Maen’s voice came from somewhere far away.

It all came back in a rush. People were depending on her. As nice as it might be to stay in this blank space forever, she had a task to complete. But how could she get back? She concentrated on the courtyard, on remembering the tiles, their blue and white sheen and the pattern of a dolphin they created, on how it felt to have a gentle breeze blowing in her face, the sun’s rays on her lids … She opened her eyes but everything was blurry.

“End the spell,” Gwenivere screamed, waving both hands in Claire’s face.

Claire blinked. What was going on? Slowly, painfully slowly, her vision cleared. Sleath rolled on the tiles in front of her, fire curling at his cloak. His screams broke through her sense of unreality. Hands at her mouth, her nostrils quivered at the smell of singed flesh, far more pungent than was usual for a Dorran spell. Did I do this? No, she couldn’t have. In the past she’d stopped thinking about spells when she experienced visions. She shivered. It had to have been the Beast itself that had caused this disaster, but then, why had Gwenivere and Maen shouted at her?

“I … I …” She couldn’t move and her lips felt heavy, like she’d been stung by a bee and had an allergic reaction. She staggered. Gwenivere’s hand reached out to steady her.

The flames multiplied, surging after Sleath in a tall wall twice Claire’s height. The fire moved fast, soon obscuring him from view. Claire heard the man’s hair crackle. He was going to be cooked alive. He was going to—

Lord Maellwyn hurried forward, flinging his hand out, palm up like he was commanding Sleath to stop. Gareth ran behind the advisor and did the same. Two jets of glistening water exploded over the burning man. Within seconds, the unnatural flames went out.

Claire slumped to the hard tiles, heart and mind sluggish. Under the damp clothing, Sleath was red and wrinkled. Even as she watched, blisters bubbled up across his skin. One of Sleath’s eyes was swollen shut, but with the one that remained open he saw her looking and tried to turn away.

Claire’s skin crawled. She felt a thousand eyes upon her. She swivelled around to see the courtyard lined with Maellwyn spectators, all staring at her with open animosity. A terrible suspicion began to form as she turned back to Maen and the others. They too, looked at her with horror.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“You lost control,” Maen said, “and wouldn’t be called back for all Gwenivere tried. I couldn’t touch your spell to end it either. It was as if something blocked me.”

“Do you mean—” She couldn’t stop thinking about Rinn contorting in unnatural directions as she spouted the Beast’s words. Betrayer. If she’d done what she’d suspected, did that make its label right? She didn’t dare look at Gwenivere.

Maen’s words were a hammer blow to the chest. “You set Sleath on fire. If he dies …”

Claire didn’t need him to finish the sentence. Sleath’s death would be her fault.