The onyx swords pierced the constructs’ rocky armor, stabbing them straight through. The armored constructs swayed for a moment, until each one fell in on itself, destroyed by its own blade.
Outside the throne room, it took Angelique a few more waves of attacks to make certain she’d gotten every last one of the mirror’s constructs.
I can’t leave a single one—we’re going to lock this monstrosity in the deepest, darkest dungeon of the Veneno Conclave, and I’m going to escort it there myself!
She narrowed her eyes in concentration as she cut through both the shadow-forged humanoid constructs and the giant, lumbering, troll-like constructs, as well.
She stopped only when she felt the last fizzle of the spell that held them together disappear, leaving only the mirror’s terrible (and enraged) presence.
Angelique held her magic tight, almost afraid to let go, afraid to let her guard down even when she couldn’t feel any other magic besides her own.
Then Evariste stood and wrapped his arms around her.
For a moment, she thought she might have dreamed the entire fight up—perhaps her mind had lost it in an effort to shield her from the disappointment of missing him.
And then she felt Evariste slide his hands across her back and felt the soft fabric of his cloak press into her cheek.
He’s here. He’s out. I found him.
Her tears of relief and joy came fast—almost knocking her legs out from underneath her as she clung to Evariste.
She unashamedly pressed her face into his shoulder and cried harder when he rested his chin on top of her head. “It’s you,” she sobbed. “It’s really you!”
Her relief was so encompassing, she didn’t feel her price bubbling in her gut until the sour taste clawed at the back of her throat.
I can’t throw up on Evariste or in Snow White’s throne room. I can’t!
Angelique ripped herself from Evariste’s arms and lunged to a large decorative vase that she retched into, her body jerking with the strength of it.
Miserably, she collapsed on the ground, feeling hot and sweaty as the unfeeling chill of her magic retreated.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Angelique babbled. “I did it.”
“You did,” Evariste agreed. His voice was a hundred times more musical than Angelique remembered. She’d be satisfied if he just talked from now until forever. She’d missed the sound so much!
A dry sob caught in her throat as he knelt at her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, supporting her even as her stomach spasmed and she retched again.
She clutched the vase with one hand, but her other reached out and latched onto the throat latch of Evariste’s cloak—as if he’d disappear if she couldn’t hold onto him.
Even when she retched again, she didn’t let go. Evariste seemed to be of a similar mind; his warm hold on her tightened.
“Why are you so ill?” he asked.
Even when concerned, his voice sounds magical.
Angelique sagged against the ground, letting her forehead rest on the cool stone floor. “What do you mean?”
“Were you injured or cursed before the fight? Why are you sick?” He peeled her off the floor, maneuvering her so she leaned into him.
Even in her addled state, Angelique didn’t miss the way he looked around the throne room like a blind man whose vision had been resorted, or the way he traced her hand and rubbed at the soft cloth of her oversized tunic.
He’s stronger than I ever realized—to be this calm after everything he’s been through.
“It’s my price,” Angelique croaked.
“The price of your magic?”
Angelique nodded, then had to dive to make it to her vase on time. Once she finished that round of retching, she could feel her empty stomach start to settle. The sour, rancid taste in her mouth was still so overpowering she could smell it when she breathed, and the back of her throat felt raw. But she was fairly certain the worst of it was over.
“Using your core magic makes you this ill?” Evariste’s arms convulsively tightened around her for a moment.
Angelique twisted in his grasp—it wasn’t enough to feel him, she needed to see him to know he was real. “This time wasn’t so bad,” she said. “When I first hit my price, it took me down for a while. Now I just get sick for a few hours.”
“Is there anything that helps?” he asked.
“Not really. Alastryn gave me some elf remedies that help a little. But this is fine.” She laughed a little. “I just can’t believe I finally found you!”
“I must admit I’m also having a…difficult time believing this is real and not some new, twisted game created by the mirror.”
“I’m real,” Angelique assured him. “We’re real.” She leaned into his shoulder again in a bizarre mixture of careless elation and leftover nausea. “And after we lock that mirror up, I’m going to pry off its backing and disassemble it piece by piece.”
“I volunteer to help,” Evariste said, his voice remarkably free of malice.
Angelique started to smile, until the reality of the situation started to dawn on her. “What about you? Do you need a healing spell—” She’d started to bolt upright, but the fast movement was too much for her stomach (which gurgled ominously).
She grabbed her vase just in time, but she had nothing left in her, so it was mostly dry hackings.
When she finished, Evariste tugged her back so she again leaned against him. “As I’m not at all physically injured, I’m much more concerned about you.”
“Angel?” Snow White picked her way across the damaged room, concern filling her expressive eyes. “Are you terribly injured? Should I call for help?”
“No,” Angelique nudged the vase. She’d have to pay Snow White back for it. “It will pass. Eventually.”
Snow White chewed on her lip. “Is there anything I can do to help? Could magic heal you?”
Angelique wiped her mouth off on her tunic’s sleeve—there were positives to not wearing fancy dresses all the time! “Nope. If it could, Evariste could do something.”
“Ahhh, yes.” Evariste let go of Angelique’s hair—she hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding it back for her. “If I could spare Angel, I would; except I’m afraid in this case, I am doubly unable to help. My magic is sealed.”
All of the happy thoughts that had been cluttering up the back of Angelique’s mind were silenced at this very, very bad revelation. “What?”
For the first time since dragging him out, Angelique could see the shadows in Evariste’s smile. “I served as a power source for the mirror, but to keep me from escaping, I was sealed before I was placed inside it,” he said.
Angelique choked on air. “But it will be easy to break off, right?” she wheezed. “We’ll just take you to the Conclave, and someone there will remove whatever it is that is keeping you sealed.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Evariste said.
Angelique’s nausea rapidly fled under the all-encompassing dread this realization—which not even her price could hold a candle to—brought.
Evariste can’t use his magic. That means he can’t build gates. Or help Emerys with the elves. Or…anything magical at all.