My vision clears, revealing Father Nicandro hobbling toward the sorcerer, raising his cane as though to wallop the animagus in the back. The priest has shaken off the spell, and if he can do it, so can I.

Just a few more steps. I clench my teeth, continuing to draw on the well of power even as I begin to draw my sword.

The sorcerer is about to attack the crowd again, but Nicandro’s cane whacks him in the back. He whirls on the priest, spins his staff in the air, sends it crashing into Father Nicandro’s temple. The priest drops his cane, crumples to the floor. His wide-open eyes stare lifelessly at my feet.

The animagus turns on Rosario.

I’m almost there, but I’m moving too slow, as though wading through date syrup. My legs are lead. My sword arm is weighed down by a millstone.

Rosario and Carilla stare wide-eyed, unable to react as the animagus raises his staff. His Godstone is suddenly brighter than the sun.

A body flies up the steps out of nowhere. I catch a spark of steel, a flash of purple fabric, as someone throws himself at the sorcerer, whisks a dagger across his throat.

The animagus chokes, head lolling, then plops to the ground in a heap of robes. His Godstone winks out.

It’s as though a switch has been flipped, for everyone is released, suddenly able to move. One woman collapses to the floor, quietly sobbing. Flames continue to lick at the food tables.

A boy in golden armor and a purple cape stands over the body of the Invierno. His dagger drips with blood.

It’s Aldo.

25

Now

EVERYONE looks on in panic and confusion. I push through the crowd, and finally break into the open just in front of the dais. Aldo looks down at me, notes my sword. Smiles triumphantly.

Then he lifts his head and smiles at the crowd.

He raises the bloody knife in the air.

People cheer.

This theater is not yet over, but for a split second I’m too confused to act.

Conde Astón, however, is not. He walks across the dais and places a hand on Aldo’s shoulder. In a loud, clear voice, the speaker of the chamber of condes says, “Thank you, my prince. You saved us all.”

Confused murmuring comes from all sides. My prince?

The reaction is perhaps not quite as universal as he hopes. Many people are still crying, from fear or injuries. Some call for help. Groups have organized to put out the fires. Fists still beat against the doors.

This does not slow down Conde Astón.

“I see an introduction is in order,” he says, smiling magnanimously to the still-terrified crowd. “It pleases me greatly to present Prince Alejandro né Basajuan de Vega, son of our late king, Alejandro de Vega, nephew to Queen Cosmé of Basajuan.”

I stare at the boy who used to be my bunkmate.