Trumpets blared. The crowd hushed as everyone craned toward the central platform. A man appeared there, waving, and the spectators cheered. A woman emerged beside him. Both wore blue—members of the court—but with gold capes. Wizards? Had to be; their magic was needed to purify the cauldron.

There must be a tunnel from the palace to the cauldrons. The wizards had arrived that way, then climbed up to make a grand entrance on the platform through a trapdoor.

The third person on the platform must be Arawn himself. He was considered both king and god here, and he looked the part. The lord of the Darklands stood tall and straight, soaking in the crowd’s adoration. He was muscular and dark-bearded and moved with an easy grace. His clothes were regal purple, and a gold crown glittered on his head.

Arawn stepped forward, and the crowd stilled. I almost wished I had a pin, so I could drop it to hear the clatter.

“My friends and subjects,” he said, his deep voice carrying through the square. “Today we come together to restore a treasure that, long ago, was stolen from our realm. Today, the three cauldrons of Arawn are reunited: the cauldron of rebirth, the cauldron of regeneration, and—once again in its proper place—the cauldron of transformation.

“You all know the cauldrons of rebirth and regeneration. One cleanses the spirit so it may be clay-born anew. The other strengthens the spirit and its magical body, fortifying their bond. Yet, few of you have dwelled in our realm long enough to know the power of the lost cauldron.”

A murmur went through the crowd.

“Transformation—what does it mean? Turning one thing into something else. Centuries ago, foolish Arthur believed this cauldron would turn cowards into brave men. Other clay-born fools thought it would turn dead bodies into living ones or transmute lead into gold. In the Ordinary, the cauldron could do no such things. At best, it could transform raw meat into cooked—and then only with the help of a fire.”

He waited, smiling, as dutiful laughter rippled around the square.

“Here, in the Darklands, the cauldron draws upon our magic to transform what is lesser into what is greater. It can take disparate things and join them together into a greater whole. Not physical things—not lead into gold or shards of glass into a mirror. Spiritual things, magical things. Wisps of spirit that have strayed. Bits of magic that have peeled away. In this cauldron, such things can come together in a new whole.” He swept his arm to indicate the crowd. “If you feel diminished—tired, somehow smaller—and the magic calls you, this cauldron will build you up again. But it won’t simply restore you; it will find your essence and magnify it. It will transform you into something greater than you were before.”

Excitement buzzed through the stands. I thought of Dad. If only I had something of him—some wisp of his spirit, as Arawn had said—perhaps this cauldron could give him back to me. But he was gone, and I had nothing.

Arawn lowered his arm, and the crowd quieted. “Our realm has been deprived of this cauldron for far too long. Now, my royal wizards shall perform the ritual to purify it. And then your king, Lord Arawn—yes, I myself—shall be the first to be transformed. You will see a king greater than any you have known before.”

Not if that king jumped into a cauldron full of demons. What would happen if the lord of the Darklands, the source of its magic, combined spiritually with the essence of hundreds of demons? As Arawn fares, so fares the realm. Arawn wouldn’t become greater; he’d be defiled, and with him the magic of his kingdom, sickening the land, corrupting the bodies of the shades. The Darklands would become an extension of Hell.

I had to stop him.

“Wait!” I tried to shout, but my parched throat wouldn’t emit more than a croak. I started pushing my way through the packed square. If I could warn Arawn, his wizards would know what they were dealing with.

The king didn’t even notice my attempt to reach him.

“Let the purification begin!” he proclaimed. As the crowd cheered, he took his seat and the two wizards stood. They went to the side of the platform nearest the cauldron of transformation. The wizards flipped their gold capes back over their shoulders, making the garments flare like wings. Silence fell upon the square as they raised their arms. Glowing prisms of light emanated from their fingertips, then grew and brightened. Fingers began to move as, working together, the wizards summoned magic and wove it into a complex pattern above the cauldron.

Where was Pryce? I scanned the square. Everyone was focused on the ceremony. On the rooftops, Arawn’s archers stood sentry. Only one had his crossbow raised—aimed at me. I stopped trying to push my way to the platform. He held the bow steady a moment longer, then lowered it. But his stare stayed fastened on me.

The wizards continued to weave the magic. Their spell hung in the air, shining, an intricate piece of shimmering, colored lace. Music emanated from it, soft at first but growing as the spell developed. The sound was like the music of the spring, but more complex. Instead of random notes, this was a composition, with melody and harmony and counterpoint. Spectators listened and watched, rapt. No one moved.

If Pryce tried to rush the platform, the archers would spot him immediately.

Together, the wizards slowly brought their arms down. The glimmering spell followed, drifting toward the cauldron. Its music filled the square, mystical, like music half-heard in a dream and more beautiful than anything earthly instruments could produce. The spell touched the cauldron’s rim, and the vessel glowed with prismatic light. The light reached through the square, its colors bathing shades’ faces. Everyone was transfixed. The light washed over all with its caressing magic.

I felt it, too. Where the light touched my face, I felt lighter, cleansed, uplifted somehow. Purified. The ritual was working.

Maybe it would work to get rid of the demons.

The wizards guided their spell inside the cauldron. Its metal resonated with the music, adding deep bass notes, like a huge bell tolling. The sound reverberated through the square. I felt it all the way to my toes.

Then the cauldron struck an off note, shattering that perfect harmony.

The crowd gasped. Arawn gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward. The wizards glanced at each other, uncertain.

Another jarring note sounded, a sledgehammer blow that threw the spell’s music off-key. The notes jangled and slid away from each other. Now, the cauldron spewed out the discordant sounds of a haunted carousel in a child’s nightmare.

The royal wizards gestured frantically, trying to repair their spell. Arawn was on his feet, a hand on his sword hilt.

The music stopped. A scream emerged from the cauldron, a chilling, desperate sound, rising in pitch and volume. People covered their ears. Some turned and moved toward the exits. A window shattered in the palace, then another.

A demon screaming—just one—like I’d heard that night in Purgatory Chasm.

Shit. The spell wasn’t purging demons from the cauldron. It was releasing them.

Pryce—or Myrddin, more likely—had rigged the cauldron to make the purification spell a trigger. And now that the trigger had been pulled, there was no way to stop it. The demons would emerge. As what, I couldn’t guess.

Where was Pryce, damn it? If I couldn’t hold back the demons, maybe I could prevent him from turning them into a shiny new shadow demon for himself.

More screams joined the first. The cauldron glowed crimson, like a devil costume, like the hottest flames of Hell.

In an explosion of sulfur and smoke, a fury of demons burst from the cauldron.

There were hundreds of them, more. Huge, hideous things with scaly bodies, leathery wings, and ugly boars’ heads. Some soared into the air. Others jumped to the ground, snatching shades who tried to flee. The square was a madman’s vision of Hell. Ash and burning embers rained down from the sky. Demons dived into the crowd, leaping on spectators, slashing them with their claws, ripping off limbs. One demon perched on the edge of the cauldron of rebirth, chewing on the shoulder end of an arm. Others snatched people, flew high in the air, and dropped them on the crowd.

On the platform, a demon tore off the female wizard’s head and tossed it into the square. The other wizard lay broken over his golden chair. Four demons held the struggling Arawn, looking like they intended to play tug-of-war with the Darklands’ king.

No! If Arawn died, the land died with him. Demons would overrun the place, gobbling up the remnants of its magic. With that power, they’d invade the Ordinary—and my terrifying vision of devastation would become reality.

Frantic, I pushed toward the platform. I couldn’t fight all these demons, but I’d do what I could to protect Arawn.

The crowd stampeded in the opposite direction, away from the platform and toward the exits. “Let me through!” I yelled. I struggled to move forward, but I was trying to dog-paddle against a tsunami.

A sound boomed through the air, like a hundred cannons firing at once. “Silence!”

The demons paused in their attack. The shades quit screaming. Everyone looked up. On a rooftop stood Pryce. He wore a tunic and leggings of the palest gray. Beside him, demons held the limp, dangling bodies of Arawn’s archers.

Two demons dropped the archers and picked up Pryce. They carried him through the air and set him down on the platform, where other demons still held the king. Facing Pryce, Arawn raised his chin defiantly. Pryce drew his sword. He lifted it high, so all could see it. Arawn spat in his face.

The crowd held its breath.

Pryce glared as spittle slid down his cheek and dripped from his jaw. He wiped his face. Then, with a roar, he ran the lord of the Darklands through.

Pryce withdrew his sword, and the demons let Arawn go. As the king collapsed on the platform, the ground shuddered. The sky darkened. Around me, shades cried out and clutched their stomachs as though they’d also been stabbed.

“I am your king now!” shrieked Pryce. He brandished his bloody sword. “I annex this realm as a territory of Uffern.” His eyes swept the crowd. “Hail me.”

Silence.

Pryce reached down and took the golden crown from Arawn’s head. He set it on his own. “Hail me!”