Trial of Magic (The Fairy Tale Enchantress #4) - K. M. Shea Page 0,131

need to stick their nose in my magic process? No one did this to me when I was bespelling the city of Ciane—which is a much larger task than a mere healing spell!

Angelique sniffed to cover up her growing nervousness. “Do not question the power of healing herbs.”

Wendal—the dratted warrior—peered in her direction. “Those are cooking herbs.”

They’re what? ELLE! I’m going to put a spell on you that makes you jingle like a bell whenever you move—good luck escaping your guards with that on you!

Angelique peered down at her herbs and tried to channel a haughty Conclave mage persona. “Obviously,” she said. “The best healing always starts in the stomach—remember that.”

Rupert cautiously opened his eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense—”

Angelique whacked him with the frilly herb, eliciting a sneeze from the warrior.

“Hah,” Oswald snorted, though he had his uninjured arm draped across his eyes.

Angelique watched him with both concern and relief. I think he’s in more pain—which means he’ll be easier to fool than Lord Critical.

As if he could sense her thoughts, Rupert opened his large yap. “This is strange.”

Yes, all hail Lord Critical.

“It’s working, is it not?” she demanded.

“It is—my wrist feels better. That’s why it’s strange.”

“Trust in the magic—and the herbs.” Angelique added a nod for good measure, hoping it appeared mystifying enough.

She was quickly becoming aware just how much she used her appearance and pretty dress to communicate her confidence as an enchantress-in-training. Dressed in an oversized tunic and with wild hair, the task was much harder.

But I don’t have to be an ethereal enchantress—I’m a sour assistant to an herb wizard!

With that in mind, Angelique smirked as she swung around to face Marzell. “Now you—the bossy one. Clean his wrist off with the boiled water once it has cooled enough, and wrap it.”

Marzell laughed good-naturedly. “I’m Marzell.”

“I know that. I’m just choosing to let you know you’re bossy.” Angelique bustled over to Oswald. “Now hop to it.”

Oswald was a lot more subdued, which actually made Angelique feel bad because he didn’t even protest when she accidentally got some of the rafter-herb (which Marzell told her was dill) stuck up his nose.

Better put a stronger healing spell on him.

She crouched at his side, shielding most of her work with her own body—though she took special care to screen her fingers, covered in silvery magic, from Lord Critical and Sir Bossy.

Oswald’s breathing became less tight, and she saw it in his wiry frame when the magic started to soothe the pain because his tenseness melted away.

Thankfully, he seemed inclined to keep his eyes closed, which gave Angelique the chance to ponder the battle.

Those constructs…they had to be made by highly advanced spells.

Angelique discreetly checked Oswald’s injury. She wanted to make it scab over, but if her spell outright healed it, it would raise more than a few questions.

I suppose it doesn’t mean the black mage that cast them has to be powerful. It’s possible for a less powerful mage to use powerful spells if they’re given the right tools—like Clotilde cursing the Arcainian princes and turning them into swans. But to do that, she had to be with them.

What, then, are the chances that the mage who created those constructs is still mucking around Luster Forest?

Angelique tensed at the thought, and her heart started to pound faster—not in fear. Quite the opposite, actually: anticipation.

If I could find the mage and capture him, surely we could make him tell us all—where Evariste is, what happened to Faina, perhaps the mage would even know where the Snow Queen’s mirror is!

Her cheek muscle twitched, and everything in Angelique wanted to go sprinting outside. But she couldn’t very well reveal her true self on the chance that a black mage might be near.

Instead, she poured a little more healing magic into Oswald than she ought to.

I need to finish this as quickly as possible. Then I will go hunt down the mage!

The mirror was doing something different. Evariste could tell because his pain had decreased significantly.

It hadn’t been long since he’d considered death and truly thought the end was coming. And now, the mirror had stopped gnawing at his powers.

Minutes passed, and Evariste wondered how long it would be until his pain spiked again.

The same rusty color was still splashed everywhere, but there were innumerable chains of magic—written out in an archaic language Evariste didn’t recognize and that pulsed with an eerie light.

The spells were gone before he had a chance to notice much more. Given that he was in the mirror,