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  Moppe hunched her shoulders under the old woman’s fierce gaze. It was the most humbled I’d ever seen her. “I’m sorry, Aya. I didn’t mean to wake you. But—” She glanced at me. I nodded. “Well, we need to find the lost crown Lyrica Drakesbane crafted for Queen Meda and we think there’s a clue on Mount Turnip. And there’s some wizard sending magical statues after us to turn us to stone.”

  “And we’re wanted for treason,” I added. It only seemed polite to warn her, given the circumstances.

  “Hmph. Is that all?”

  I couldn’t tell if the old woman was serious, or amused, or both. Her craggy expression told me nothing.

  “Er, yes, ma’am.”

  “Call me Aya,” she said. “And I suppose you’d best come in and tell us all about it.”

  * * *

  “So,” Moppe said, as she finished the tale of our night’s adventures, “that’s why we came here.”

  We were seated around a sturdy oak table spread with a blue-and-white-striped cloth. Aya had listened to the tale silently, all the while dishing up bowls of thick, creamy yogurt with stewed cherries and slices of warm oat bread spread with honey and butter. Now she filled small blue-glazed cups from a pot of tea, setting one before each of us.

  Well, each of us except the goat.

  The creature had followed us inside, to no one’s dismay but my own. He’d curled himself on a pillow propped in one corner, like a pet dog, and watched Moppe tell our story as intently as the rest of them. But now he rose and trotted over, bleating plaintively. His yellow eyes were fixed hungrily on the nearest teacup.

  “You know it just gives you a gassy belly, Tragos,” said the old woman.

  The goat stamped one cloven hoof and tossed his craggy horned head.

  “Oh fine. But don’t come to me for sympathy when you’re rumbling like a thundercloud.” Aya rummaged on a shelf behind her, taking down another blue cup, then setting it on the floor and filling it with the minty brew.

  “Uncle Goat loves tea,” Moppe told me, over a sudden, loud slurping. “And teacups,” she added, as the slurping turned to crunching and the snap of pottery. “It’s a good thing my cousin Mikos is a potter.”

  I stared at the goat. I wasn’t sure what flummoxed me most. That the creature had just eaten a teacup, or that Moppe was calling it… Uncle?

  “He’s not really your uncle, is he?”

  “Oh, no,” said Moppe.

  “Hah.” I started to smile. “You almost had me—”

  “He’s my great-uncle,” said Moppe. “Aya’s younger brother.”

  “Seriously?”

  The goat gave a resentful snort. Aya chortled. “Just because the fool turned himself into a goat doesn’t mean he’s not still family.”

  I shook my head, trying to make sense of this explanation. “Turned himself into a goat? You mean transfiguration? He’s a wizard?”

  “He’s a stubborn ninny is what he is.” Aya snatched her own cup from the table just as the goat began to nibble at it.

  I considered the goat. He returned my stare calmly. It was possible, of course. A wizard who transfigured themselves into an animal—anything that couldn’t speak to undo the spell—ran the risk of getting stuck that way.

  “Isn’t there someone who could change him back?” I asked.

  “Didn’t work,” said Aya. “I figure he always was an old goat, right from the start. Guess the magic knows that. Magic’s clever. Too clever for its own good. Remember that, Agamopa.” She bopped Moppe lightly on the head.

  “I will, Aya.”

  “Mmph. I suppose I ought to have expected it to crop up in the line again,” the old woman went on. “Magic’s thick in these mountains.” She swished a bony finger through the steam that coiled from her cup. “Especially up near the peak, where the old powers linger.”

  “On Mount Turnip?” I asked. “That’s where Master Betrys told us to look for the crown. Do you have any idea where we should start?”

  A flicker of something ghosted across Aya’s face, too fast for me to catch. “No,” she said, in a voice like a shutting door. “There’s nothing fit for you on that mountain.”

  “But there is something there,” I said doggedly.

  Aya’s lips tightened, her eyes hooded as she looked away. “There is a place. But it’s too dangerous.”

  “Please, Aya,” said Moppe. “We’re not frightened.”

  “You should be,” said the old woman.

  “We’ve already nearly been crushed, petrified, and arrested on charges of treason,” I protested. “We know it’s dangerous. But it’s also important. It’s a matter of life and death, Aya. What if that other wizard gets his hands on it first? He could destroy everything. Moppe and I may only be apprentices, but we know magic. Moppe’s more powerful than a dozen other wizards put together. We can do this. We’re the only ones who can.” I leaned forward, meeting her intent gaze with as much certainty and bravery as I could muster. Master Betrys was counting on us. I couldn’t let her down now.

  “She’s right,” said Moppe. “We can do this. Antonia’s memorized practically every grimoire there is. If anyone can beat that petrifying pustule to the crown, it’s us. It has to be us.” She drew in a long breath, lifting her chin as she met Aya’s gaze. “I need to prove I can do this.”

  The old woman studied us for a long moment, before finally giving a sigh and a shrug. “Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now off to bed,” she added, as Moppe tried to stifle an enormous yawn. “You’ve been up all night, and everyone knows it’s best to be fully rested when plotting perilous adventures.”

  * * *

  When I woke it was late afternoon and the cottage was empty, except for the goat, who stared at me in such an unnerving manner I quickly made my escape outside. The sun had begun its slow fall into the western sea. The cottage stoop had a breathtaking view of the azure waters. I could even see the Arch of Fate, the odd rock formation just off the southern tip of Medasia, where ancient stones formed a natural arch that supposedly granted good fortune to anyone who could sail through it.

  From this perch high on the mountainside, the scattered fishing boats were like children’s toys bobbing across the blue. Far away but ever-present, the sea filled my vision, wrapping half the horizon in turquoise and azure. I’d never seen my home like this. It made something catch in my throat. Awe. Or maybe thankfulness. It was so beautiful.

  Florian used to talk about how lucky we were to be Medasian, but I’d never really understood. It made me wish, all the more fiercely, that he was here. He’d always helped me out of scrapes when I was younger. Smoothed things over with Mother. Slipped me extra coins for books when she refused to indulge my “foolish fancies.” Believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. But now I was on my own. I didn’t even have Master Betrys to advise me. All I had was…

  “Delia. Rise,” Moppe called out from the grassy slope below. Her little sister zoomed up into the air, shrieking with delight.

  “Higher! Higher!”

  The girl swooshed down again, to hover just above a clump of frothy yellow wildflowers. Moppe continued her spells, sending the girl up and down until she was breathless with giggles.

  She was getting better at control. That was a good thing, given how much raw power she had. I forced myself to look away. I had other things to focus on. Like my gown. The silk was beautiful, but impractical for the journey ahead.

  “Silk. Transfigure. Linen.”

  The spell snapped neatly into place, sparkling from my collar to my knees, transforming the crumpled silk into a more practical blue linen. I added a few more touches, getting rid of the ruffles and lace, loosening the waist and sleeves. I even managed to transform the skirt into a pair of flowy trousers. As usual, it was the sort of magic I was best at: complicated, finicky, and practical. Not showy, not powerful. Not fireballs and lightning bolts and turning back the seas like the great wizards of old.

  The words of the imperial envoy,
Benedict, echoed back to me like a warning. I’m no Master, he’d said. My talents were not found… sufficient.

  “That was amazing,” said a voice behind me.

  Lyssa watched me wide-eyed from the stoop. Behind her stood Uncle Goat, calmly chomping on something that looked distressingly like the handle of an iron skillet. “What else can you do? Can you change my peas into gold?” She thrust out a wooden bowl full of fat green peapods.

  “No,” I said. “Transfiguring can’t change the deep nature of something. You could turn a spoon into a dagger, but metal stays metal. Food stays food. Besides, the magespeak for gold is a state secret. Only a few wizards in the Imperial Treasury are ever taught it.”

  Her face fell.

  “I could do this, though,” I said. “Peas. Transfigure. Cake.”

  The peapods shimmered, re-forming into my favorite type of cake: a soft pillow of cardamom-scented dough filled with almond cream. I’d even managed to get the fancy pink icing just the way it was from the bakery.

  “Ooh,” said Lyssa, gazing with longing and adoration at the plump pastry. “Do you think…” Her voice fell to a whisper, her cheeks flushing. “Can you teach me how to do it?”

  “Maybe,” I said cautiously. “Could you hear me, when I was casting the spell? Can you hear this? Cake.”

  “Sort of,” she said. “I mean, not really. It’s all fuzzy, like you’re whispering.”

  My heart twinged. “Can you repeat it?”

  Her brow furrowed, making her look even more like her older sister, as she sputtered a few syllables. They sounded nothing like magespeak.

  I regretted casting my spells now. She still looked so hopeful. But if she couldn’t hear magespeak now, she was no wizard.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, to get the hard part over with. “I don’t think you’re a wizard, Lyssa. It’s something you’re born with,” I added. “Not something you can change. It’s like being really tall or really short. It doesn’t mean you can’t do all sorts of other amazing things.”

  I braced myself, afraid she was going to burst into tears. But instead she looked thoughtful.

  “I want to be a sea captain,” she admitted, glancing out across the vast blue horizon. “Like Mama.”

  “There you go,” I said, relieved she’d taken it so well. “I bet you’ll be amazing. Me, I’m terrible on boats. I get horribly seasick. I turn green, and I don’t even need magic to do it.”

  Lyssa giggled, lifting some of the weight of guilt from my chest. I knew how it felt to be born without all the gifts you hoped for, but at least I was still a wizard. What if I’d been born without even that?

  “Is that where your mother is now?” I asked. “Out sailing? Is that why you’re here with your grandmother?”

  The girl stammered. “Er, w-well…”

  “Yes,” said Moppe, making me startle. How long had she been standing at my shoulder, listening? “Go on, Lyss. We still need peas for dinner. And Antonia and I have wizard-work to do.”

  Lyssa nodded, trotting off to the garden, munching her cake as she went.

  “Thanks,” said Moppe, watching the younger girl disappear behind the artichokes.

  “For what?”

  “That,” said Moppe, jerking her chin in the direction of the garden. “Not making her feel bad. She’s always been that way. Always wanting to prove she can do anything I can. She nearly drowned trying to follow me out to the Caphos Lighthouse last year.”

  I shrugged, trying to smile. “I know what it’s like being a little sister. Florian was everything to my mother. I could be Grand High Wizard and I’d still never get her to smile at me like she did when he got his commission.”

  Moppe’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t a fool. She’d heard the was.

  “What happened to him?” she asked, after a moment.

  “He was murdered,” I said, looking out over the distant waters. There was a frigate in the distance. Just like the one Florian might be on now, if things had been different. “He’d just been posted on the Victory, as third mate. They said he must have gone on board early, maybe to settle his gear. So he was there when Captain Porphyra and the Liberation stole it from the harbor. They never even found his body. The Liberationists just tossed him into the sea.”

  I heard Moppe’s breath catch, but I didn’t dare look at her.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I felt exposed, like an oyster cracked open, soft and pink and raw. But Moppe didn’t try to tell me he was brave, or that it was a noble sacrifice, or any of the other things people told me at the funeral. She didn’t try to hug me, or stammer over apologies and lamentations.

  She sat beside me, on the stoop, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the faint warmth of her shoulder beside me. We sat and looked out over the sea. The sun had slid down, sinking into the pink-streaked clouds above the western horizon.

  Moppe’s grandmother found us there, as the world turned to dusk. “All right, girls,” she said. “It’s time.”

  “Time for what, exactly, Aya?” asked Moppe.

  “Time to be brave.”

  10

  WE CLIMBED THE MOUNTAIN by starlight. Aya led the way, striding swiftly along the dusty track that wound up past groves of lemons and rocky ledges tufted with wild thyme. The goat trotted behind us, yellow eyes mirroring the waxing moon above.

  Frogs fluted from the darkness. And other, less familiar creatures too. Every so often I heard the rustle of something larger, a deep huff, a slow heavy tread. Once, I even caught a glimpse of gleaming silver antlers above a long, solemn face set with ghostly pale eyes. I shuddered, feeling as if the creature could look straight into my soul.

  “Silver deer,” said Aya. “Don’t worry, they’re the least of your concerns.”

  She smiled, as if that was supposed to make me feel better.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “And do we really need to go there in the dark?”

  “Not so dark with you around,” said Moppe.

  Indeed, as the night deepened, my cursed glow became more obvious, emanating from my exposed hands and face.

  “Could be worse,” said Aya. “At least you didn’t turn yourself into a goat.” She gave what I could only describe as a cackle. In return, the goat made a particularly rude bleat. “It’s not far now,” the old woman went on, jabbing a gnarled finger toward the denser forest ahead. “Behold, the Forest of Silent Fears.”

  I peered into the shadows, which suddenly seemed full of the dim hulks of nameless terrors and the faint glitter of a thousand watchful eyes. “Is that just a scary name people call it because it’s so dark and mysterious?” I asked hopefully.

  “No,” said Aya. “They call it that because anyone who dares enter must face their greatest fears if they wish to survive.”

  “What happens if you don’t face them?” asked Moppe.

  “Then you become part of the forest forever.”

  “And we’re going in there?” I asked. “On purpose?”

  “Not we,” she said, halting before the thick dark wood. “You.”

  “You’re not going with us?” squeaked Moppe.

  Aya cocked a dubious brow. “I thought you two were the only ones who could do this. That you were ready to face any challenge to claim the crown. Did you change your minds?”

  A part of me wished desperately that I could. But everything I’d said earlier was still true. We had a duty. And I could see the same defiant answer on Moppe’s fierce face.

  “No,” we answered, in unison.

  “There you have it, then. This is your quest, not mine. Besides, if my nightmares came out to play, I doubt any of us would survive. But don’t worry. I’m sure Tragos will take good care of you.”

  “The goat?” I sputtered. “You think a goat is going to keep us safe from a magic nightmare forest?”

  The goat snorted, as if insulted, but Aya seemed not to notice. She was waving us toward a slight gap in the thick brush that bounded the da
rk wood. “That way,” she said. “Head toward the peak. That’s where she lives.”

  “Who?” asked Moppe.

  “The Speakthief. A foul creature, but even the gods envied her powers of prophecy. Nothing like a glimpse of the future to lure even the wisest folk into foolishness. If the stories that Terwyn Drakesbane came here are true, no doubt he was seeking her advice.”

  “Er, and why is she called the Speakthief?” asked Moppe.

  The old woman’s eyes glinted in the starlight. “Some say she was a mortal woman, once. That she was the first wizard, who stole the language of the gods, so they took her voice as punishment. Now she can only speak in the voices she’s stolen from the unwary and the unwise. That’s the payment she demands. Words. So take great care what you say in her presence.”

  A chill rippled through me. My feet seemed to sink into the ground, heavy as boulders. Words were everything. Wizardry was founded on them. If I lost my voice, I would lose my magic. Was it worth the risk?

  Maybe Aya was right. Maybe this was too dangerous. What were we doing, traipsing off into an ominous woods called the Forest of Silent Fears in search of a creature that could steal our voices? If only we could let someone else fix this mess!

  But there wasn’t anyone else. Only Moppe and me. And yes, losing my voice would be horrible. But not as terrible as losing Master Betrys. Or losing our home to war and chaos. We had to take the risk.

  I drew in a long breath, then forced my feet onward. “All right. Let’s go find the Speakthief.”

  * * *

  My golden glow lit our path across the deep green moss that carpeted the Forest of Silent Fears. The soft stuff muffled our footsteps, rendering the utter hush of the forest all the more ominous. No frogs, no silver deer. Nothing but clouds of fluttering pale moths that crowded around my head, soft wings beating at my glowing skin. I tried to wave them away, but they returned moments later.

  “What’s that?” Moppe whispered, pointing off between the trees. Faint shimmering knots hung from the branches in the distance.