Darren Shan - Bec

But it’s neither.

It’s Bran!

The boy stands at the edge of the pool, arm extended—he threw the knife. His face is curiously blank.

My heart leaps. Has Bran’s innocence been an act all along? A spy in our midst, playing us for fools, waiting for the ultimate moment to strike? Impossible! Nobody could have been that convincing an actor. But there he stands, hand outstretched, dagger buried in Drust’s back.

Drust topples aside and sees Bran. He yells with astonishment, then groans with pain. I falter. I want to unleash a spell, drive the boy—the killer—back, destroy him if I can. But it’s Bran! I can’t hurt him, not until I’m sure, not unless—

“Why?” Drust gasps.

Bran blinks. He frowns at Drust, then looks at me—and bursts into tears. “Flower!” he cries. Starting forward, he wades sluggishly through the water, arms flailing, displaying none of his customary lightness of movement.

“Bec!” Drust croaks. “Stop him!”

“No,” I sigh, letting the spell die on my lips, understanding by his tears what has happened. “It’s all right. He won’t do any more damage.”

Bran makes it to the island of bones, wailing and sobbing. He throws himself at me, yelling “Flower!” again and again. I catch him, let him bury his face in my chest, and hold him as he weeps, stroking the back of his head, murmuring quieting words.

After a few seconds I look over his head at the wounded druid. “He heard us on the cliff,” I whisper. “He knew you planned to kill me. He couldn’t let that happen. In his own crazy way he loves me. He hasn’t done this to sabotage your plans—he did it to save me.”

Drust grits his teeth with desperate anger. “The idiot! Doesn’t he know what will happen if—”

“No,” I interrupt calmly. “He doesn’t. I’m his friend, maybe the one person in the world he feels close to. He only knew that he didn’t want me to die. Don’t blame him. He couldn’t control himself.”

Drust’s expression softens. “Aye,” he chuckles. “I think you’re right. It’s not much comfort to us, but…” His eyes flick to the lodestone. He reaches for it, then winces and remains lying on his side. “I can’t do it, Bec.”

I go cold. “You must!”

He shakes his head. “It’s not too late—the spells will work if resumed quickly—but Bran has wounded me deeply. I haven’t the strength to continue.”

“You must!” I shout again. “You have to try! Don’t just lie there and give up!”

“I’m not talking about giving up,” he smiles sadly. “ I can’t complete the spells—but you can.”

“And sacrifice Bran?” I ask quietly, dreading the answer.

“No, you fool,” the druid snaps, more like the Drust of old. “Why kill two when one’s already half dead? I’m finished. Even if I could cast the rest of the spells, I’d never make my way back to the surface. You need to take over, complete the spells, then slit my throat and let my blood flow over the lodestone.”

I stare at him stupidly.

“There’s no time for gawping,” he growls. “I’ll last a few more minutes with luck, but not much longer. Do it, Bec. Say the spells. Kill me. Spare your people the wrath of the Demonata. Then save yourself and Bran.”

That final word jars me into action. Bran’s risked all to rescue me. I can’t repay him by stranding him here, to perish at the hands of the demon masters when they come. Unwrapping his arms from around my shivering frame, I push him back, smile to show everything’s all right, then shuffle up beside Drust.

“What do I have to do?”

“Do you know where I stopped?” he asks.

“No.”

“You must,” he insists. “You have a perfect memory. Cast your thoughts back.”

It’s not easy but I force myself to focus. I pick at the strings of my always reliable memory with nimble fingers. Recall the spell Drust was chanting, the place where Bran interrupted him. “Got it,” I mutter.

“Continue from there,” the dying druid says. “Spread your arms. Embrace the lodestone as you finish, then launch into the next spell. It should be a clear run from there.”

“And the sacrifice?” I ask. “When…?”

“You’ll know,” he vows.

One deep breath. A quick glance at the tunnel to the Demonata’s universe to make sure nothing’s barging towards us. I begin.

The words come easily. There’s great power in this cave. I sensed it as soon as I came here— even before, when I was on the surface—but it’s only when I open myself up to the magic that I feel the full extent of it. This stone has been filled with some of the most potent magical power imaginable. I believe I could do anything I set my mind to if I tapped into the lodestone long enough.

I finish the spell, then grab the stone with both hands. I mean to start the next spell immediately, but the rush of power from the lodestone catches me by surprise and the words stick in my throat. It’s incredible, as if all the magic of the stars was rushing into me. I can see the universe, the entire night sky. I could reach out if I wanted, leave this world, go and explore the stars with the Old Creatures. This land suddenly seems insignificant, hardly worth bothering about. With this much power I could create my own worlds and people to inhabit them. Not a priestess, not a queen—a goddess.

Fate whispers to me. Asks me to accept a new destiny, travel a fresh path, blaze a godly trail. I don’t ever have to know fear again, pain, want. I don’t even have to die. All I need is to reach out and…

“Rainbow,” Bran whispers, touching my left forearm, gazing at me seriously.

I feel the power rush into Bran through my flesh, then out of him again. It’s not that he can’t hold it—he just doesn’t want it. The promise of the stars doesn’t interest the boy. He cares only for me. If he could express himself with words, I think he’d say something like, “All the power in the universe means nothing if you can’t be with the one you love.” And he’s right. What’s the point of becoming a goddess if it costs the lives of all those I care about? I don’t want a world of worshipful slaves, just a village of welcoming friends.

I smile at Bran, nodding slowly. He smiles back and releases my arm. I focus, close my eyes, shut out the seductive temptation of the stars and cast the next spell.

A wind develops as I progress, a hot, biting, swirling wind. It gusts in a circle around the island of bones, gathering speed and power. Drust and Bran huddle up to the lodestone, not touching it, but wriggling in as close as they can, sheltering from the unearthly wind.

Screams. At first I think it’s the sound of the wind. Then I realise they’re coming from the tunnel which links this cave to the realm of the demons. The Demonata know what’s happening. They can sense their gateway to this world collapsing. But all they can do in response is shriek hatefully at the herald of their ill fortune.

The spells race off my tongue. I’m barely aware of what I’m saying. I was foolish to worry about making a mistake. The spells are almost chanting themselves. I don’t think I could stop even I wanted. I’m not in control now. The magic is.

I draw to the end of another spell, lick my lips, open them wide to start on the next… and stop. It’s time. Only one spell left. And that comes after the sacrifice.

Drust knows too. He hauls himself up without having to be told. Smiles crookedly at me. “Live long, Bec. Live well.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My next words can only be words of magic. I can’t break the sequence of spells.

Drust limps around to the other side of the lodestone. He leans forward, so his chin is directly over the rock. Then he tilts his head back, offering his throat. I let go of the lodestone with my right hand and press the nail of my index finger to the flesh of his throat. I smile at him, a tear trickling from my left eye. Then I swipe the magically hardened and sharpened nail across.