The Last Spell Read online

  DEDICATION

  For the Goffins:

  Kim, Vinny, Andrew, Matthew, Hailey

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Book One: The Hourglass Tower One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Book Two: The Museum of Impossible Things Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Book Three: The Balance Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by J. A. White

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Martay grasped the hilt of his cry-sword and waited for death. It would not be long now. The famous glass walls of Ta’men Keep were as strong as stone but couldn’t keep the Spider Queen’s creations out forever; he could see them milling just outside, testing the building for weaknesses. Colored panes distorted their monstrous shapes, creating impossibly tall silhouettes with curved claws and stalactite teeth.

  Or maybe those aren’t distortions at all, Martay thought. Maybe that’s their true appearance.

  He wondered—and not for the first time—how he had come to be here. Unlike his older brothers, Martay had never wanted to be a soldier. Since childhood he had dreamed of becoming an apprentice to a Master Glassblower and learning the secrets that had made Lux the wealthiest region in Sentium. His family had not been influential enough to secure him such a coveted position, however, and with no other options he had enlisted in the city guard. It had not been such a bad life at first. Ta’men Briel was a city at peace, and mindless drills and guard duty seemed a small price to pay in order to provide a stable life for Yonda and their baby girl, Wix. Martay’s childhood dreams remained unfulfilled, but he had found a new purpose in his daughter’s eyes.

  And then the entire world had changed.

  At first it had only been rumors, easily dismissed. A beautiful sorceress with eyes like cracked glass. Hideous monsters. Entire towns destroyed overnight. As the Spider Queen made her way across Sentium and gathered witches to her cause, however, her existence became irrefutable. Since nearly killing the graycloak leader Timoth Clen in a fierce battle up north, her army had been sighted in the most obscure places: a mining town reclaimed by pines; the last remaining Ice Swamp; burnt remains of an ancient cathedral.

  Rygoth was searching for something.

  The Curators of Lux had gathered in Ta’men Keep and consulted forgotten texts written in dead languages, desperate to find out what could be so important to this new enemy. As a result of their investigation, a small chest was dragged up from the vaults and placed under vigilant guard. Martay could see it now at the opposite end of the hall, sitting on a tall pedestal. The chest was circular and constructed from red nosidian, a rare, nearly indestructible crystal that took centuries to form.

  There was no keyhole, no lid. It was never meant to be opened.

  Rumor had it that the chest held one-quarter of an ancient weapon called the Vulkera. No one knew the exact nature of this weapon, only that its four sections, when joined together again, would grant the Spider Queen unimaginable power. Just a few months ago, Martay would have scoffed at the thought, but that was before magic had escaped the stories and woven itself into the fabric of their world. Legends and lore, however farfetched, could no longer be ignored.

  They had to keep the chest from Rygoth at all costs.

  A thunderous boom shook the Keep as something struck the towering doors. Martay heard the soldier to his right—a mirror-bender’s son, if he remembered true—let out a single, involuntary sob.

  “Hold steady!” shouted High Swordsman Bellamy, a bear of a man with a beard thick enough to nest a family of birds. “Remember your orders!”

  The doors, struck again, rattled in their frame.

  Martay tensed with anticipation. He heard the soldier behind him mutter a prayer beneath his breath.

  “Draw your weapons!” Bellamy shouted.

  Martay’s turquoise cry-sword, a marvel of crystal-smithing as strong as steel and half its weight, made a sound like tinkling glass as he withdrew it from its sheath. He was a passable swordsman at best, but a grizzled old veteran called Two-Toes had promised Martay that skill mattered only on the practice field. In a true battle, whether he lived or died would come down to instinct and luck. The words were not reassuring.

  Past the mirror-bender’s son, whose single sob had escalated into a series of quiet whimpers, Martay saw that new silhouettes, human in appearance, had joined the monsters still pressed against the outside walls of the Keep.

  As one, these new arrivals opened the books in their hands.

  “Gr-gr-grimoires,” said the mirror-bender’s son, following Martay’s gaze. His eyes danced like sparks off an anvil. “That’s what they call ’em. Heard that from a peddler who passed through the ruins of Gildefroid. Told me what happened there, he did—what a book like that can do in the hands of someone with—”

  The great doors rattled more violently, as though a particularly fierce storm had grown hands and learned how to push. Soldiers took fighting stances. High Swordsman Bellamy barked orders. A chandelier of flickering shard-glass swung from side to side, shifting the hall from light to darkness, darkness to light.

  Here they come, Martay thought, waiting for the doors to explode open and unleash Rygoth’s forces into the hall. He clenched his cry-sword tightly and pictured his daughter’s face.

  The attack came from the sides.

  It was only afterward that Martay pieced together what had happened. While the soldiers’ attention had been fixed on the doors, magic had enabled Rygoth’s monstrosities to pass through the exterior walls and into the Keep. The subsequent battle, if indeed it could be called that, was over in minutes. The Spider Queen’s abominations blanketed the surprised soldiers like a mist of death, leaving behind nothing but armored corpses.

  Martay found himself on the floor, a dull wetness spreading across his stomach. He had been bitten, or clawed, or impaled with a horn. It had happened too quickly for him to make sense of it. He touched his wound and his hand came away an irrevocable red.

  The doors yawned open. Rygoth glided into the chamber.

  Her beauty—undeniable but frightening—was that of a swooping hawk or raging bonfire. She wore a spotless white gown with gloves that extended to her elbows. Her cracked eyes were a collage of colors, like a stained-glass window that had shattered and then been reassembled by a madman.

  Three girls entered the Keep behind her. Two of them were identical in every way, with straight glaucous hair and eyes as cold as polished moonstones. The third girl was younger and had dark skin. When she saw the carnage that filled the hall her lips quivered, building toward a full-fledged scream, but then Rygoth looked her way and the girl’s face immediately slipped into an impassive mask. She shrugged, as though the deaths meant nothing to her.

  She’s pretending to be one of them, Martay thought. Why?

  Rygoth’s eyes locked onto the red chest at the end of the hall.

  “I can feel the grim’s power from here,” she said, starting forward.

  Boar-like monsters with obsidian tusks repositioned the bodies that blocked Rygoth’s way, clearing a narrow path from one side of the Keep to the other. Martay bit back a scream as something dug its teeth into his calf and dragged him across the
floor. He forced his body to go completely slack, playing dead. Once the creature released him, Martay opened his eyes just the tiniest bit and watched the witches through a haze of eyelashes.

  “Everyone leave,” Rygoth said.

  There was a flurry of motion as monsters stampeded through the front entrance. Before the dark-skinned girl could join this sudden exodus, however, the Spider Queen’s prismatic eyes clamped down on her like a vice.

  “Everyone except you, Safi. There are matters we need to discuss.”

  The girl stood with bowed head as the hall emptied out. The twins were the last to leave, every step in perfect sync. Before closing the large doors behind them, they paused to look back at Safi and shared a knowing smile.

  A silence like that of a graveside vigil descended over the hall.

  “It’s unfortunate that it was rumors and whispers that led us here, and not one of your visions,” Rygoth said.

  Safi followed a few paces behind the Spider Queen. Though she gave the appearance of being deferential, Martay noticed how close the girl’s hand remained to the grimoire knotted to her belt.

  She wants to be ready in case she needs to use it, he thought.

  “I know that I’ve failed you thus far, my queen,” Safi replied, “but—”

  “Perhaps if we were searching for a single grimoire I might find your failure—not acceptable, certainly, but understandable. Needle in a haystack and all that. Only we haven’t been searching for a single grimoire. The Vulkera, as you well know, has been split into four sections, four grims. Surely you should have found at least one of them by now.”

  “I’m getting closer,” Safi said. “There’s a second grim not too far from here. I saw it in a vision last—”

  “Where?”

  “I just need a little more time.”

  “So you’ve said. Repeatedly.”

  “I’ve never had to control what the visions show me before,” Safi said. “A few mistakes are to be expected.”

  “More than a few,” Rygoth said. “For a year now, you’ve been leading us to every corner of Sentium. If I didn’t know any better, I might suspect that you were lying to me in order to buy time for that meddlesome friend of yours to find the grims on her own.”

  Martay held his breath as the witches passed right by his head, their boot heels clacking sharply against the stone floor.

  “Kara Westfall is not my friend,” Safi insisted. “I could have helped her at Clen’s Graveyard, but I remained by your side. I serve you and no other. You know it’s the truth—you’ve been inside my mind!”

  Safi was doing her best to sound confident, but Martay heard a twinge of nervousness in her voice.

  “And what a fascinating mind it is,” the Spider Queen said. “Not the slightest hint of betrayal—or doubt, even. Every thought is a paragon of perfect loyalty.” She stroked Safi’s hair with the back of her gloved hand. “And to think you were once my enemy. The change in you is truly . . . unbelievable.”

  Martay risked turning his head for a better view and found himself face-to-face with the mirror-bender’s son. The boy bore an expression of mild surprise, as though dying had been an unexpected but not entirely shocking turn of events. Martay wished he had taken the time to learn his name.

  How many Luxians died today? How many more will die if she lives?

  Anger anesthetized Martay’s wound. He slowly rose to his feet. At the end of the hall, the Spider Queen was examining the nosidian chest, her back to him. She waved her hand over the lid and a shower of translucent worms fell from her fingertips. Black smoke rose as their acidic bodies began to burn through the chest.

  Now’s my chance, Martay thought, inching closer. While she’s distracted.

  Rygoth slowly removed her gloves. From this distance Martay could see that one of her hands was swollen and misshapen, with a red welt on its palm from a stinger’s kiss. She reached through the hole that the worms had created and withdrew a rectangular flap of leather. It was rose-colored, with the petals of a flower embossed into its surface. If Martay had seen the contents of the chest yesterday he might have thought the Curators had made some sort of mistake, for this scrap of leather did not look like a weapon at all. He knew better now.

  It’s the cover of a grimoire.

  “I can feel the power thrumming through it like an underground river,” Rygoth said. “And this is just one grim. When I have all four . . .”

  She turned to Safi. Her lips contorted into a cruel smile.

  “I know that you’ve been faking your visions, Safi. You might somehow be able to hide your true thoughts, but you can’t conceal the hatred in your eyes. You’re trying to keep me from my book.”

  Safi took a step back, both hands on her grimoire now.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, my queen,” she said weakly. “I only wish to be your faithful—”

  Rygoth waved her entreaties away.

  “It’s not your fault. Your entire life has been built upon a foundation of lies. ‘Do the right thing.’ ‘Help your fellow man.’ But there is no joy to be found there, only servitude to a false nature. Humans yearn to destroy one another. Just look around you. Do you think these swords and bows are to keep the peace? Of course not! Men invented war so they could kill as they please and call it ‘honor.’ At least I’m honest about my intentions. I kill because I like it.”

  Martay took another step forward and Rygoth’s head jerked upward, like a deer hearing a predator in the brambles. He paused in midstride, certain that she was about to spin around and end his pathetic assassination attempt, but she continued talking as though nothing had happened. Martay nearly collapsed with relief.

  Almost there, he thought, taking another step forward. His arms shook as he struggled to keep his cry-sword from dragging along the ground. He was still losing blood, growing weaker by the moment.

  “Once the Vulkera is whole again,” Rygoth said, “my reach will extend to everyone’s mind at once, like the rays of the moon. And what a gift I shall bring them! All people will finally understand that love and compassion are nothing but lies. They will embrace their desire for violence and become the monsters they were meant to be. A better world is coming, Safi. With your help—or without it.”

  Martay stepped into position.

  Now!

  Drawing back his sword, he tensed his arms for a horizontal slash that would sever the Spider Queen’s head from her body. It never happened. A cold presence invaded his mind and he froze in place, unable to move. Rygoth looked back at him with an amused expression, as though he were an ill-tempered child who had attempted to kick her shin.

  “Why are you trying to be a hero when you are so ill-suited to the role?” she asked him, looking away from the young witch for only a moment.

  It was enough.

  Sensing an opportunity that might never come again, Safi snatched the grim and ran toward the tall doors behind the pedestal.

  Where are you going? Martay wondered. Rygoth’s army is waiting for you. There’s nowhere to run.

  Except the girl, he now saw, had no intention of fleeing through a door made by human hands. Still running, she opened her spellbook and read strange words in no recognizable language. A magic portal, hazy with purple light, popped into existence just a few yards in front of her. Safi put on a final burst of speed, leaping through the air at the last moment so she could dive headfirst into the portal. Her outstretched hands vanished into the light.

  That was as far as she got.

  There was a loud crack, like a tree falling, and the stone floor buckled into a giant hand that snatched Safi from the air. Her grimoire slipped from her grasp along with the rose-colored grim.

  From the darkened corners of the Keep stepped the twins. Martay wondered when they had reentered, assuming they had truly left at all. From what he had gathered, this had all been a plan to expose the young witch as a traitor.

  “What a surprise,” Rygoth said coldly, as one of the twins rushed to return the gr
im to her. “Our little seer isn’t as loyal as she seems. Such a waste of talent.” She smiled. “Throw her in the Stinging Cell. Perhaps she’ll have a change of heart. If not, there are other ways to find the last three grims.”

  The stone hand relaxed its grip and Safi slammed to the floor. The twins each took an arm and started to drag her away, but the little witch didn’t make it easy. She kicked and scratched with strength that belied her age.

  “Kara’s going to stop you!” Safi screamed, all pretense of loyalty dropped. “She did it once and she’ll do it again! I bet she’s looking for the grims right now. Knowing Kara, I wouldn’t be surprised if she already—”

  The twins dragged Safi through the open door and into the night.

  For a long time after that, the Spider Queen stood with her back to Martay, breathing deeply. Safi’s betrayal—or perhaps her final words—had struck a nerve. When she turned around to face him, her fragmented eyes were cold with fury.

  So this is how I die, Martay thought. At least Yonda and Wix are safe. That’s all that matters. He had sent them to a distant aunt the moment he learned that the Spider Queen’s forces were heading in their direction. Martay suddenly remembered that it was Wix’s fifth birthday next week and he had not yet chosen a gift for her. He hoped that Yonda would find something special and say it was from him.

  Picturing them in his mind’s eye, a smile crept across his face. He was ready.

  “I feel your love for them, hero,” Rygoth said with disgust. “Your precious family. But don’t you understand? Love is weakness. All you’re doing is showing me the exact spot to strike.”

  There was a tugging in his mind and all memory of Yonda and Wix vanished.

  The effect on Martay was devastating. His wife and child were the foundation of his entire existence, and without them his interior world collapsed inward like a tent whose poles had been removed. His mind was crushed to scattered fragments, and his heart shriveled to a black pebble capable only of despair.

  “What have you done to me?” Martay asked, trembling. He felt frozen from the inside out.