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Going backward in time was a lot like being picked up, tossed in the air a few times, spun around until you threw up, and then thrown into a blender. A whirl of unnameable colors flashed before Waltz’s eyes along with a dizzying array of brain-breaking shapes that probably belonged to a layer of reality that mortals were never meant to see. The whole time, his core fought the agonizing sensation of having his magic drained from him, only leaving enough for one spell. He reached into his pocket, and heaved a faint sigh of relief when his fingers closed around a crystal. The tingle of magic greeted him, along with a sense of Myth’s presence. ‘Thank you,’ he thought, aiming the thought towards the deceased witch, his brother apprentice. Hopefully this time around, he could save Myth, too.
The whirl of colors lurched to a halt, and he landed on a rocky surface. Hurtling backward in time left him horribly unbalanced, and on top of that, his body throbbed with pain and his skin felt as if it had been scraped raw. Waltz stumbled forward a few steps before collapsing and landing face down on stone and something that was undoubtedly tree bark. The sharp tang of blood filled his nose, and something wet trickled down his cheek. His body rejected even the thought of moving with such vehemence that the muscles in his legs gave a shudder before locking down completely. His stomach clenched ominously, and bile rushed up his throat so fast that he barely managed to turn his head to the side before he began heaving. For all Hecate’s warnings about the dangers of the spell, the Goddess hadn’t mentioned this.
“Cresswell? What in the hell are you doing here?”
Gods, that voice…it was not his day, was it? He dragged himself up to his knees, wiping his mouth. He also swiped at his cheek, though he doubted it would do much good. Finally, he raised his head to find the past version of his former rival staring down at him, looking equal parts incredulous and annoyed. Maybe even a certain amount of smugness as he took in the other’s bedraggled state. “I thought Her Majesty cursed you.”
Waltz opened his mouth, but his throat closed up, and all that came out was a hissing as air escaped. His lungs seized up, and coughs came bursting out of him. The coughing only worsened when Myth lunged forward, and with a flash of light had him pinned against a wall, knife pressed against his throat. He hadn’t pressed down too hard yet, but Waltz’s coughing meant the knife broke the skin.
“What are you doing here?!” Myth demanded. “The Queen dealt with you herself, so how have you broken your curse already? There’s no way you’ve seen the Princess and gotten the box and key from her: I would know if you had.”
Blessed air finally began flowing into his lungs, and despite the pain, Waltz smiled. The smile only widened as Myth’s last few words penetrated the haze that had spread over his brain since he landed. “Lucette is alive…thank the gods,” he breathed. “It was worth it.”
“What in the hell are you on about!? How did you find this place?” The knife pressed harder against his throat, cutting just a little deeper. Oh…Myth was being careful. He must want answers badly. “Answer me!” The amber eyed witch’s voice was a hiss, and Waltz choked as the knife dug in. Even so, he persevered.
“Caynehirst,” Waltz croaked. “Mythras Caynehirst.” The pressure of the knife disappeared, and Waltz sucked in deep gulps of air greedily. He rubbed his neck, wincing at the sting of the cut, and he searched for Myth—Mythras, he corrected himself. The witch in question had backed against the wall, amber eyes wide and wild. All color had drained from his face, and Waltz got the strangest feeling that the other witch wasn’t here, in this underground chamber, with him, anymore. He made to move forward, but found that Mythras’ binding spell was still in place. He strained against the invisible bonds, but they showed no sign of yielding. Mythras continued to stare at something that Waltz couldn’t see, pale and stricken, hands curled into fists in his pockets.
Waltz watched his former rival retreat into his memory, guilt gnawing at him. His Myth—er, the Myth from his timeline, had warned him that his past self would not react well, but had also emphasized the fact that the invocation of his true name, paired with his family name, was the only way his past self would listen to anything that Waltz had to say. “Mythras,” he reminded himself again. “Mythras,” he called softly.
His former rival offered no response. Was…was he trembling? Waltz strained, but still the bindings held. He had to admit: Mythras possessed considerable power, as well as a strong will. It had to be so, for the bindings to have held him this long. “Mythras!” He called again, louder this time. “You’re right. Something strange has happened, and I can give you answers.”
“How did you learn that name?” The other witch asked the question so quietly that Waltz almost didn’t hear him. Mythras’ voice was so low that the sound scarcely carried through the air, only bringing vibrations.
“You told me,” Waltz answered. And he had…in the future. “You told me what happened to you…what the humans did to your family.” He spoke softly, carefully, as he would to a wounded animal. That had been the start of the War, hadn’t it? The witch genocide. A few tales following generations of isolation, and suddenly the humans were out for their blood. Mobs would storm to their doors in the night, forcing them out of their homes and killing them for no other reason than the fact that they were witches.
He’d heard his parents’ whispered conversations as a child: in their hatred and unreasoning fear, the humans had killed even children. And for some, killing wasn’t enough. Hildyr had not held back describing the gory details of the deaths to him in her efforts to corrupt him. Mythras had been easier to convince in that regard: after all, he’d witnessed the cruelty firsthand as they slaughtered his family. He’d been the only survivor, and he’d still borne the marks of human cruelty when Waltz had left their timeline. “You told me what they did to you, Myth—er, Mythras,” he continued, keeping his voice even, willing the compassion he felt to manifest in his tone. “You didn’t deserve any of it…none of your family members did. It was senseless.”
“Yet you still chose their side in the War,” The other witch’s voice was flat, but his eyes held more awareness. He’d thrust his hands into his pockets, where Waltz knew they would be curled into fists.
Waltz bowed his head. “I would never side with something like that. But Hildyr was out of control: she was becoming as bad as the humans were during the Hunts--.”
“Shut up.”
Waltz raised his head, and inwardly winced. Mythras’ eyes blazed with an unquenchable fury as he stalked towards him. Before Waltz could get another word out, hands were wrapped around his neck, squeezing. Worse, the damned binding spell was still in effect. His lungs once again began screaming for air, and he was helpless to do anything about it.
****
Myth was not having a good day. He’d woken up with a headache, and it had all gone to hell from there. The servants seemed to be going out of their way to be more incompetent than usual, Alcaster was particularly insufferable, and the mountains upon mountains of paperwork left by his predecessor were in such disarray that he fully expected to spend the next decade clearing the mess. And now, when he was on a walk trying to clear his head, he had to run into Cresswell, of all people. Naturally, as if the universe was out to get him, Cresswell uttered the name that haunted his dreams.
How? How did he learn that name? Despite the nonsense Cresswell was spewing about how he, Myth, had revealed that name himself, he knew it had to be a trick. There was no way he would have shared that information. Seeing his rival now, pinned against a tree, straining to breathe, was moderately satisfying. As he looked more closely, he had to concede that Cresswell looked like shit. His face was streaked with blood, a lot of which was coming from his nose, and more spilled from a large gash on his cheek. Not to mention he’d found him on the ground hurling up what had to be the full contents of his stomach. It was a shame he hadn’t been the one to put him in that state. But he still had to know how he’d learned…that name. Sighing, he released the other witch.
Cresswell sank to the ground, gasping.
“Speak.”
“I come from another timeline,” his rival said.
What? Does he seriously expect me to believe that? “Try again, Cresswell. Those kinds of spells have been lost since before the time of the Crystallums. Unless you managed to find the Hekataian Codex and translate it by some miracle, there’s no way even you could manage that.”
“Well, I didn’t find the Codex, but…”
“What?! When did you find the Codex? How? Do you have any idea how many witches have tried and failed to find that?”
“I didn’t find the Codex.” Cresswell’s eyes filled with pain, and he let out a shuddering breath. “The Princess did. She’s the reason I was able to come here. She found the Codex and managed to crack the code just enough that your counterpart could finish the job and send me back here.” Then, he did something Myth…no, he was Mythras, would never have expected. Waltz Cresswell crawled forward, and clasped his knees with one arm, taking his right hand in his own. “Mythras Caynehirst,” he said hoarsely. “I, Waltz Ennaeus Cresswell, come before you and beseech you: help me save Lucette Riella Britton.”
The ritual of supplication hadn’t been used for at least three generations. Cresswell had to be desperate if he was willing to go this far. “What exactly do you propose to save her from, Cresswell? The last I heard, the King had exiled the ones who cried for her blood after the war. She’s to have a knight assigned to guard her…Alcaster’s own son, as I understand.”
Cresswell’s face was a study in agony as he replied, “It won’t be enough. Not for what’s coming. Please…help her.”
His headache returned with a vengeance. A voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother’s murmured, “When the ritual of supplication is used, it means a witch has exhausted all other measures. Take heed and hear them out.” He longed to question Cresswell more closely, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Somehow, Cresswell had finally experienced a fraction of the desperation he’d felt every day for years, waiting for Hildyr to notice his efforts. “Get up,” he sighed. “Stop groveling, and let’s see what can be done. How is the Princess in danger, exactly?”
“She has Empathic abilities.”