"Trying to escape?" Baslyn said, shouting to be heard over the wind. Rain drenched him, and crimson blood fell down the side of his white face. "No one can protect you now. Everyone you hate has defeated you." He laughed, an evil sound. "Who was it that came when you were lost in the rain? Who came to comfort you when Rosie left?" He stepped forward. "Was that not I?"
Bran didn’t have the strength to respond. He saw Astara, framed in the broken windows. He was so weak he could hardly keep his eyes focused on her.
"How can you go on fighting when the world is against you, and everything you ever dreamed of is gone?" Baslyn said, spitting his words at Bran like knives. "How can you fall, weak and powerless, and still fight me?" His voice lowered and he stepped forward, until his feet were inches from Bran’s flesh.
"How can you face your death," Baslyn said, "and still say you are right?"
Bran was silent. He could only lie there, still and trembling.
"Sit up," Baslyn hissed. Bran didn’t move.
"
Sit up,
" Baslyn commanded again through his teeth, his voice harder, and Bran forced himself to move, to meet Baslyn’s eyes. The rain poured down, soaking his clothes and his skin, washing across his face. Bran had to tilt his head back just to look up at Baslyn’s face, so filled with evil it seemed to be made of it. Baslyn narrowed his eyes.
"Look at you," Baslyn said, raising his voice. "You have
failed.
"
He flung something at Bran, and it clattered across the stone, striking his leg. A quick flash of lightning through the blackened sky glimmered across its surface. It was his mother’s necklace.
"Look at what it represents," Baslyn said. "Your mother’s goodness, given up into a simple necklace, like those before her. And for what?"
Bran didn’t have the will to fight Baslyn any longer. He slid his fingers forward and took the necklace into his hands. Baslyn sneered.
"She gave it up for powers that made her great." Baslyn said. "She cared for the powers more than anything else in the world. She was willing to
kill
for them."
As Bran touched the necklace and lifted it up, there was no feeling in it. It was dead against his fingers, like a candle that had melted its life away. Baslyn gave a small laugh. Bran was unable to move, staring down at the necklace, letting Baslyn’s words bite at his soul.
"You always wanted to be like her," Baslyn said. "And so you are. Both of you failed."
Then, as if by grace, the skies above Bran stirred. The rain continued to fall, drenching every inch of him. But the clouds broke, so that almost instantly, the light of the moon came free of its bonds, whiteness falling upon the top of Farfield Tower.
For a moment, Bran saw nothing. But the next instant, something flared up before him, in his hands, like nothing he had seen before. The necklace was glowing, so much that in the same second, it threw light all across the roof, and they were blinded by it, causing Baslyn to cringe.
The pendant on the end of the string had leapt into a fiery white and silver. It was as if he held the very moon in his hands, glowing in his face, the warmth of it coursing through his palms, down his arms, and through his skin. And seared into the necklace with a fiery white, almost as if in a silent message, was the name.
Hambric.
Bran stared at it. In a moment he wasn’t looking at the name anymore, but deep into its silvery surface, into its reflection, in which he saw someone looking at him. At first he was startled, for beyond the surface were the eyes of his mother, the same from the picture Baslyn had showed him. But the next second, he realized it wasn’t his mother’s eyes at all. It was his own reflection staring back.
Something seemed to move within him, the stirring of a memory. In a moment, he was no longer on the roof. He was back in Dunce, at the thirteenth house on Bolton Road, just like it had always been, before everything had happened.
He could smell it, feel it, almost instantly. He could hear the sound of the front door opening, of feet on the steps, of the wind through the crack in his bedroom window. As he looked on the necklace, he was suddenly back in the house he had called home for so long, never knowing his past, never knowing of magic or secrets. He felt as if it had all only been a moment ago, and his life had never changed.
And then he could hear something else familiar, playing in the back of his mind: a voice he had heard so many times, speaking to him, her words echoing in the back of his head.
"
But what type of person
are
you going to be, Bran?
" he could hear Rosie say, her voice as clear as if she was next to him.
"
Are you going to be ordinary like everyone else?
" she said, and he could almost feel her voice like a presence against his skin.
"
Will you just give up when things get hard? Let them force you to forget who you are? Or will you find the courage to make the choice—and be a hero?
"
With those final words, it was as if a torch dipped in oil had caught flame within his soul, lighting him inside once more. The world that had stopped around him came back in a rush—the rain on his shoulders, the glow of the necklace, the rumble of the lightning—and again, Baslyn was before him.
"You’re wrong, Baslyn," Bran managed to whisper, shaking though energy came back to his muscles. Baslyn’s eyes opened wide. Bran stopped, and in a second, everything dawned on him.
"This necklace represents what she gave up," Bran realized, speaking louder. "It is what she wished she could have had back: the curse she wished she could have undone!"
Baslyn was held in place, though Bran could see he could not deny it. Something came behind Baslyn’s eyes, so slight it was nearly impossible to see—an edge of panic. Bran lifted the necklace.
"My mother left this to remind me of who I am," he said. "This necklace is the echo of what goodness she once had, what she wished she could take back, but couldn’t."
He lowered his voice. "In the end she gave up the Curse, and all her power, and all her life, and everything you offered her—" He narrowed his eyes on Baslyn, "—because she loved
me
more."
"Bran, look out!" Astara shouted from the window. Baslyn had readied his wand, and in a blur of motion, he swung it upward, launching a flash of blackness toward Bran. It came out like a net, a screaming sound like that of hundred snakes hissing, but Bran was ready, and he fell to the ground, rolling to the side. The blackness screamed in Bran’s ear as it flew over, like the cry of death, a stench that immediately threatened to suffocate him.
Bran slid across the roof, falling again as the blackness came toward him like a ghostly specter, death in a cloud. He lifted his hands, throwing magic before him, shoving the shadow away. He hit it full force, and it flew outward like a thin silk blanket, folding in the middle, its scream deafening.
"Bran!" Astara shouted, and he spun. She was standing in the window, and in her hand was Adi’s wand. She threw it toward him, and he didn’t hesitate, holding his hand out, calling it, and it shot into his grip.
The moment it slid into his hand, it was as if he had extended his arm far beyond his reach, as if his abilities were suddenly heightened. It was like the powering up of a weapon in his palm, a stretching of every skill he had, further and more powerful than before. His didn’t have a chance to hesitate in it. His senses called to him, and he followed their bidding, slinging the wand in front of him and letting the magic flow across his skin and into the wand.
Magic surged forward and a burst leapt in front of him. It came out as a giant blue wall, almost transparent like a shield of energy, the same as he had done before in the park. It appeared not a moment too soon, as a blast of magic like a blackened hand leapt from Baslyn’s wand, nearly knocking Bran off his feet with sheer force. Bran held the shield, the fingers of the blackness stretching toward his heart to rip the life from him, the power of it causing sweat to run down Bran’s forehead as he held it.
He shoved Baslyn’s magic away, and it broke, the streak of it flying like a cloth through the sky. Baslyn paused, considering his next move, beginning to walk to the side. Bran kept up with him, keeping across the roof. There was no hiding the exertion on Baslyn’s face from the magic.
"You don’t stand a chance against a master of mortality." Baslyn hissed. "I should have killed you when you were a child."
"You would have killed yourself," Bran said. "If it wasn’t for me, you’d already be dead."
Bran took another step, and Baslyn followed, wand at the ready, just like Bran’s. Neither of them dared to reach for magic, slowly contemplating each other’s weakness. Bran clutched the wand in his right hand, and in his left he held the necklace, almost feeling strength from it. He saw Astara out of the corner of his eye, poised and ready for the first chance she got. He didn’t look up at her for fear that Baslyn would notice, but he instantly knew what she was going to do.
Bran started to walk faster, making Baslyn move with his back to Astara.
"You won’t make it from here alive," Baslyn said.
"I might as well try," Bran said, not breaking his gaze, his every thought bent upon what he was doing. His mouth was dry, his fingers sweating against the wand. One more step. He saw Astara standing there, waiting for the right moment.
Then she yanked her hand back toward her, as if pulling on a rope, and Baslyn’s foot was swept out from under him. He fell to the roof, but as he did, he slung his wand backward, rolling over. Astara hadn’t been ready for it, and she screamed, her body picked up from the ground and slammed into the wall. She crumpled, but Bran didn’t have a second to turn to her; he saw Baslyn fall and didn’t waste his chance.
In a sudden motion, Bran swept his hands apart, pulling at every bit of magic he could grasp, sending it at Baslyn before he could get to his feet. It was so much Bran couldn’t hold onto it, and the moment he let it loose, he felt it burst. Baslyn tried to stand, but the blast was too powerful—an invisible wave that threw him into the wall, the roof shaking underneath them.
Baslyn struggled to rise, but Bran dashed forward and snapped Adi’s wand down, straight at Baslyn below him. Bran was breathing hard, magic flowing through his skin so freely his senses were ready for anything, but he stopped, seeing Baslyn there before him. It was as if everything had happened in that very instant, and it was just then that he realized where he was.
"Oh, Bran," Baslyn choked. He looked up, pain in his eyes but a dark smile on the edges of his lips. He was trying to crawl back, to gain his balance, shaken from his fall.
"Your first murder?" Baslyn said, his words tinged with fake regret.
Bran faltered, holding the wand still but hesitating with the final magic as he realized what he was about to do.
"My second death," Baslyn coughed, "and it’s the first murder for you to commit."
Bran felt something icy sliding across his skin, as if in the rush of what was happening, he had lost what he was doing. Baslyn managed to smile.
"Don’t worry," Baslyn whispered, "Even your mother found it hard at first…" Baslyn’s gaze shifted downward. "…but the second murder will be easier."
Suddenly, Bran saw something flash in the corner of his eyes, a stab of light. In a second, his senses screamed to him; he jumped, sliding back, but it was already too late. Baslyn pushed up with a shout, bringing the end of his wand up and driving the jagged gem into Bran’s side.
Bran choked, and in a second, everything stopped.
Bran’s head was down, his eyes wide, the glimmer from the icy tip of Baslyn’s wand on his face. Baslyn’s head was inches from Bran’s, his teeth together in fury and hate; and as Bran looked down, choking as he did, he saw the knife end of Baslyn’s wand had pierced through his shirt, and staining its glowing surface was a soft line of red blood.
Bran stammered, unable to say anything, pain wracking his entire body and radiating from the wand. Time became so slow he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Baslyn seethed, holding the blade, steadying himself and ready to drive it further.
"It’s the end," Baslyn hissed. "Just as I foretold."
All had stopped. Bran’s eyes moved over Baslyn’s shoulder, where he saw Astara beginning to stir from the rooftop.
"Die, Bran," Baslyn whispered close to his ear, "and with you, the last of the Hambrics."
Baslyn’s hand moved to the end of the wand, his palm against it, to drive it through into Bran’s heart, his teeth clenched together in furious hate. The world around Bran stopped as he saw Astara slowly coming to. They would both die here.
Then, as if his mind had found a tiny, last drop of strength hidden deep within him, he felt something rising through his hands, as if magic were comforting his final moments. There was hardly an inch of it, but it was sudden and quick, and it was all he needed.
Bran looked to Baslyn, just as he clenched his teeth to drive the wand further. And then Bran lifted his hand, and with it, gripped the end of the wand.
"Not yet," Bran said with all the voice he could muster, and he felt his fingers tighten against the metal of Baslyn’s wand, and his mind seize magic once more.
It happened in a flash: the rush, the power that came to him, just as before, just as with Adi’s wand. It was as if a gate had been broken, the connection of Bran’s magic through Baslyn’s wand, coursing from where the knife edge pierced through his skin. It carried like a current through the wand, connecting to Baslyn’s hands solidly gripping the other end.
"
Eclectri…firinge…
" Bran gasped, hardly able to breathe, using the first and only defense that came to him, the magic he had done at Adi’s house. But it was enough.
It came as a sudden burst, for though Bran was weakened by the pain from the wound, the connection was strong through him, the powers coursing out before Baslyn had a chance to block it. And even more powerful than the magic had been before, the blue lightning crackled like a thousand headlights, bursting forth like flame, splitting and diving across the metal, striking Baslyn fully in the chest.