Magic is treacherous, it lied to them all...
In a world where magic and its guardians have been banished to the deadlands, the Blight now threatens the survival of mankind. Terren, the last remaining city, stands alone against its relentless advance. Ever closer draws the choice all men must make: face the deadly Blight or cross the Bridge to Magic.
Elika, an orphan on Terren's streets, hates and fears the Bridge to Magic. Like everyone else, she clings to the hope that purging every lingering echo of magic from the world can stop the Blight. Then she discovers that magic is hiding within her, and through her it seeks to enact the will of its own. Everything Elika knew about her past shatters, as long-buried secrets about her true birth emerge. Accused of being a mage, many doubt her loyalties. Elika must soon decide: Either destroy the magic inside her or cross the bridge to her own uncertain end.
The Bridge to Magic is a story of a life between two deaths and an impossible choice to make. It is a story of finding hope and survival in a world where neither seems possible.
Magic is treacherous, it lied to them all...
In a world where magic and its guardians have been banished to the deadlands, the Blight now threatens the survival of mankind. Terren, the last remaining city, stands alone against its relentless advance. Ever closer draws the choice all men must make: face the deadly Blight or cross the Bridge to Magic.
Elika, an orphan on Terren's streets, hates and fears the Bridge to Magic. Like everyone else, she clings to the hope that purging every lingering echo of magic from the world can stop the Blight. Then she discovers that magic is hiding within her, and through her it seeks to enact the will of its own. Everything Elika knew about her past shatters, as long-buried secrets about her true birth emerge. Accused of being a mage, many doubt her loyalties. Elika must soon decide: Either destroy the magic inside her or cross the bridge to her own uncertain end.
The Bridge to Magic is a story of a life between two deaths and an impossible choice to make. It is a story of finding hope and survival in a world where neither seems possible.
âTo understand the history of our realm of Seramight, we must first understand the nature of the world we live in. Three realms of life circle each other in the dark Abyss, bound together by the Great Web. The celestial realm is ruled by the gods, the ethereal by the tsaren. Our own earthly sphere was ruled by the Kings of the Sacred Crowns for three thousand years, before Tsarin Reval destroyed their houses in the Sundering War.â
History of Men, Gods and Magic,
By Priest Oderrin
All stories began and ended at the Bridge to Magic.
So it has been for six hundred yearsâthe story of this age, the story of the battle against magic and its banishment after the Sundering War. And Elikaâs story, too, began with the bridge. Were you to ask any man, woman or child, they would say their earliest memory was the first time they beheld its dark path or heard whispered tales of it in their cots.
There was a time before the bridge was forged, but those stories had been mostly forgotten. The dark history of that bygone age was now buried in the archives of the priests. Only the echoes of it remained on the tongues of minstrels and drunks. Elika had heard them all and each tale seemed more unimaginable and terrible than the other.
Those were dismal times of endless warsâmen against magic, magic against men. The time when even the winds and rains were at the mercy of magic and its fickle moods. It might snow in the summer, or the winds might carry sand upon them, burying entire cities. Honest travelers feared to ride through the forest, lest the trees attacked them. A farmer might wake up to find his river flowing the wrong way or dried up altogether. Those days were gone now and might have been forgotten, but for this stark reminder before Elikaâs eyes.
And who had not stood before the dark bridge in their last moments, facing that choice they all must one day make?
Like that hoary, old codger in the ale-stained uniform of the cityâs Blue Guard who had stood before the bridge for nigh on an hour; unsteady on his legs, his sour breath steaming in the crisp, winter night, drinking deeply of the cheap gin, which was as likely to kill him by morning as what he now faced. He took a long swig out of his bottle as he braced himself for the unknown fate ahead.
Elika sat huddled in the doorway of an abandoned house, watching him, needing to know whether he would reach the other side or die crossing. Her ears filled with the howling winds rising from the great chasm, and she did not need to imagine what he was thinking, staring as he did at the monstrous bridge and the lifeless bank beyond, for she was thinking the sameâsurely it is better than what remains at our back. Better than what approaches.
She clutched the cloak tighter around herself against the icy gust of wind trying to rip it from her. She had scavenged the woolen cloak some days ago from a dead beggar, and it still smelled of his mustiness. She pulled up her knees to her chest and clamped her icy hands under her arms. The stone wall was cold at her back. Her breath steamed. She waited and watched the old guard take another wobbly step toward the bridge, seeking courage in his gin-dulled mind. He took another gulp, stared at the empty bottle in surprise, then threw it aside with a foul curse. The bottle hit the frozen ground and rolled off the edge of their world into the chasm, to fall for eternity in that endless darkness.
It had been a long and depressing day, and Elika was almost glad the old guard was finally here. Only that day everything had changed. Only that day they had learned that Terren, their city, now stood alone in the relentless advance of the Blight.
That day, as the sun was rising, Elika was there, high above the gathered crowds, watching from the rooftops as the Blue Guard rode through the city gates, whilst melancholy bells announced their return. This old guard was amongst the rag-tag force who had left not twenty days ago to scout the boundary of the remaining lands still untouched by the Blight. Sent out by the king, they had set out to discover the fate of the only other remaining city, to find out why the trade caravans from Drasdark had not arrived that summer whilst those that left Terren had not returned. Now, the Blue Guard had finally come home.
They rode silently, their faces haunted, the desolation in their eyes as stark as the lands beyond the bridge. The same desolate silence had engulfed the crowd, and the slow clip-clopping of hoofs on the street seemed loud and final.
Behind the returning guards walked a long line of stony-faced, bleak survivors of Drasdark, carrying the barest of their possessions in fur bundles. There would be no more trade caravans. Terren was now the last refuge of man. Magic had won after all. And soon, like everyone else, Elika too would have to face the impossible choice, the only choice left to them now; fall to the Blight or face the Bridge to Magic.
With the shadow of that choice looming high overhead, it was easy to fall into despair, and it had taken great effort to push it aside and remember her daily task. That choice was still too far away, she had told herself, whilst her stomach was hungry now. Besides, there was still time. The king and his priests would find a way to stop the Blight. All they needed to do was purge every last echo of magic left in their world that drove the punishing Blight. She had clung to that hope even as she watched the drawn faces of the guards who had lost theirs.
It was said those who had faced the Blight often returned to face the bridge. Often enough it was true, and an orphan like her did not reach the age of fifteen years without learning how to see the signs of men on the edge. And she was better than most at reading men, at seeing those who fought to hang on to the shreds of their decaying hope. It was barren hope, nothing more, which led them to believe that perhaps whatever lay on the other side of the bridge, death or some manner of uncertain existence, was better than the Blight. All you had to do then, when you saw those death-walkers, was stalk them and wait.
So when the Blue Guard had ridden through the city gate, her gaze had instantly settled on this old picket with a frost-nipped nose. She could read men and instantly knew he would face the bridge that day. It was not in his eyes, as Bad Penny had taught the young ones in their packâhis gaze was dull, uninterested like the rest of themâbut in the set of his lips. They were pressed together in a determined wayâstubborn almost. Elika could almost hear his thoughtsâthinking any more about it wonât change me mind. Iâve seen enough. I know what it is that approaches, and I know what it is I have to do. Itâs the bridge for me.
She had been the first to mark him. It was why Bad Penny always sent her out as a spotter before anyone else. She did her part and signaled one of the younger kids milling about on Tollgate Corner to run and tell Penny that she had sighted the target to follow. Penny would send the scouts to learn what they could about the death-walker. And when they found his home, they would send for the looters. Until then, she had to keep him in her sights.
So she had followed him in the shadows all day, whilst he stumbled from tavern to tavern, chasing that evasive courage in the bottom of his tankard. It was his last day of life in this world, after all, and a man had a right to drink himself to oblivion if it pleased him. Except, there was not enough gin in the city to douse him in the courage needed to cross the bridge. That always came from within. She had seen many a staggering drunk turn away from the bridge, and many a sober man take that first fateful step onto it. And she was certain this one had enough stubbornness to take that first step. His mind, as he was no doubt telling himself, was made up.
As he drank his last coin, he told any near enough to listen of all that befell the Blue Guard on their way to the new border of the Blight, and all they had seen since they came upon it. Sheâd heard enough such stories to pay them little mind. They were always the same. Aye, it was creeping toward them, and all it touched slowly died and turned to dust. And aye, only Terren was now left in its path. You did not dwell on it, else the temptation of the bridge or the eternal chasm it spanned might sink their tendrils into you. If she listened too closely, she might just start thinking of things other than getting enough food to live through the winter.
Still, as the day waned her mood grew more and more dour. She had learned more about the guard than she wanted to know. Learned of his wifeâs death from the sweating fever, and his son who took the bridge after he had lost the use of his arm in a bar fight and could no longer earn his keep, of his daughter who was heavy with another child she did not want. He suffered pain in his knee from an old wound that plagued him more and more each passing winter. He hated the darker ales, for they turned his stomach at the end of the night ⌠Elika did not want to know any of it, did not want to become bound to him. But she had listened and came to like the old codger and now she would not rest until she knew his fate.
So here she was, sitting, waiting in the swirling snow flurry, long past when she should have returned to the safety and warmth of her den. He took another staggered step forward, past the black, grasping roots which anchored the bridge to this world. They sank into the cobbles of the old street like talons, glowing like slick skin in the flickering oil lamp across the street. It was the only light in the whole of Rift Street alongside the edge of their world.
The old guard stood there for another long, undecided moment, then cursed on a steaming breath and took another step toward his uncertain end. Again, he halted. Only the blood-salt barrier, a thick red line in the melting snow, lay between him and the magic of the bridge. Salt soaked in blood was the only defense against magic. It was how men long ago defeated it in the terrible war that sent the mighty tsaren fleeing.
Elika took a deep breath and hoped he would be spared the fate of reaching the other side. She had watched many a wretched soul face the bridge and thus knew the first step onto it was the most important. Once taken, another would follow, and then another, each one less labored, more determined, and then resolute. One step after another coming quicker, until they reached the point of no return âŚ
Once, she might have tried to stop him. Just as once she had tried to stop a noblewoman with a babe in her arms from doing the same.
âLady, there is hope,â Elika had told her urgently. âThey say the king has found a way to halt the Blight. He sent the priests out toward it âŚâ
The woman had turned her empty gaze to Elika, handed her the babe and without a word strode out onto the bridge, and perished before reaching the end. Elika had been only six then, but as she was the one to bring the babe to their Hide, it was up to her to look after it. Those were the laws of their pack. She tried, but the babe cried and cried and refused to eat the stew, taking only bread soaked in water. There was no milk to be had unless you were gentry, and the babe died soon after in her arms.
No one tried to comfort Elika. She should have known better than to torment the poor babe for pityâs sake. It would have been kinder for her to perish on the bridge in the embrace of her mother.
It was a hard, bitter lesson, and Elika had learned it well. After that, she never stopped mothers with babes, never picked one up from the frozen streets where they were left to face a quick, merciful death. She had learned to shield her heart from the endless river of misery and hunger that flowed through the streets of Terren. Aye, it had diminished her, made her less somehow, but it had kept her alive where she had watched others perish.
Since then, she only watched the desperate take the bridge from afar.
Bad Penny was right; there was nothing you could say to change their minds. Their hearts no longer lived in this forsaken world.
Elika caught a flash of movement in the shadows between the buildings. It was inevitable the others would sniff out the old death-walker before the day was done. One-eyed Rory of Peter Pocketsâ gang emerged to lean on the corner. He was, as ever, impeccably dressed in a silk shirt and silver vest, with black kid gloves and a long fur coat. Youâd never mistake him for the gentry, however. He did not carry himself as one, did not talk like one either. He was as much a thief as any of them, and despite his plush, stolen clothes, just as desperate. She paid him no mind.
Rory nodded to her, a wicked glint in his remaining dark eye. âStill here, is he?â
Elika continued to ignore him. Unlike the others of her pack, she did not bother to hide. Little Mite would be angry with her, but why bother hiding from the other watchers? They all knew each of them was there. Farther away, she had already spied the other looters, waiting for the signal to the race to claim the old manâs remaining earthly possessionsâwaiting, like greedy vultures, for death. And she was one of them. If she could, she would have found another way to be. But there was no other way. She had not only herself but the pack to look after. If it meant robbing the dead, then sheâd do it. As one of the oldest in their pack, the weight of responsibility for the young ones rested with her as much as with Penny and Mite.
Today, luck was on her side. The old guard was one of those few who took nothing with them across the bridge, except the clothes on their back and their witsânot even the hope of reaching the other side. He left everything behindâfood, grain and flour, coal lumps, blankets, clothes and shoes ⌠everything their pack desperately needed.
Unfortunately, he was also a city guard and thus one of Captain Daigerâs men. Likely, they would have already gone through his home, laying claim to and hoarding the best pickings. They would not have taken anything, though. No, not as yet. Not until the old man was dead or on the other side. Else claiming his possessions was thievery. And the king hated thieves more than murderers. Looting, however, was tolerated. After all, those who took the bridge never returned. Captain Daigerâs men were likely guarding the doors until they received word the old picket was gone and not coming back.
âBloody hell! Looks like heâs about to change his mind,â Rory said to no one in particular.
âHe wonât,â she said.
âConfident, are ye? Why are you here, anyway, Spit? You wonât be getting his loot. My men are already outside his home, and theyâll cut any ragamuffin who tries to sneak past us.â
She hated being called Spit. It was the name they gave the orphans. âNameâs Eli,â she mumbled, though why she bothered she did not know.
Rory knew her name, knew all their names, for it was his job to know. He was the one Peter Pockets sent out to catch and bring in those young âuns who might be worth something to Pocketsâ gang. He was also the one who delivered the less savory messages to competing gangs when they strayed from their own hunting ground.
âSure it is, Spit.â He gave her a mean, toothy grin. His yellowing teeth were large in his long, gaunt face, and made her think of a foxâs snout. âWhy donât ye just go back to your mouse hole and save yourself being cut again?â
âNot here for his loot,â she lied and instinctively scanned the buildings for Little Mite, in case Rory was of a mind to cut her now and be done with it.
Mite was also watching, though sheâd never see him unless he wanted to be seen. Mite only needed to give the signal across the roofs for Tick to slide down the chimney into the old guardâs home before Captain Daigerâs men got their own signal. Tick was fast and wily. Heâd be quick to grab what he could and be gone before anyone had the mind to chase him. Sheâd already seen his pleased face from afar when he had signaled to Mite that he was in position. There was good looting to be had with this one.
âSo here for the spectacle, then?â Rory smirked. âAlways thought you were morbid like that, watching them with those large icy eyes of yours, as if you were death itself urging them on.â He shuddered. âEvil pup. Maybe you be thinking of taking the crossing yourself, hey Spit? Like your ma and pa.â
Again, Elika ignored him. He thought everything was there for his amusement. Rory was cruel when the mood struck him. She had seen him cut a finger from Fast Flintâs hand, when he had mistakenly tried to pick the other thiefâs pocket. He laughed when he did it too, telling the skinny boy to mind whom he stole from the next time.
Rory pointed to a rheumy-eyed wretch in the distance, wrapped in a woolen shawl. âSee him over there, the one with the walking stick. Watching. Making up his mind to do the same.â
Elika had already seen him, studied him, and dismissed him as a target. He would never put a foot on the bridge. He watched it from afar, fearful of approaching the magic in the bridge any closer lest he became infected with it. Yet, drawn to it as a starving man to rotten bread, watching it with the same amount of disgust and want.
The bridge was a frightening sight. A grotesque creature that sometimes stirred and groaned in the dead of night. An ugly, ever-present reminder of the time when magic had existed in their world. Slick, spindly tendrils wove together to form a thin, narrow path, just wide enough for two men to walk side by side across the enormously wide chasm. The railing was little more than a thin, black web which could not possibly hold a manâs weight were he to lean on it. No one touched it, not ever.
For a long time, like everyone else, Elika thought the bridge had been woven by magic. Then one day, she had stood at the chasm and stared into those endless depths that had swallowed many a man. And as she looked into the eternity of darkness, a thought came to her, a whisper on the rising wind from the Abyss; the bridge was woven from magic. It was more than a mere thought; it was a surfacing of some deep, innate knowledge. It made no sense, other than the stark resonation of the truth through her.
The bridge was magic itself, solid and menacing, and not some invisible force men imagined it to be. Like something out of old Bill Fisherâs tales, which he spun over ale in the Fat Fish tavern. Bill sometimes spoke of magic taking on the shape of some object, or walking amongst men as one of them and no one being any the wiser. Sheâd always thought them just tales, but what if they were true? The bridge had to be alive, for it had been forged by Tsarina Arala with her last breath, and she commanded the magic of life. The bridge ended the age-long war between men and magic, for it allowed magic to flee menâs domain once and for all. Since then, nothing had ever crossed the bridge into their world, and no one who had crossed to the other side ever returned.
At the chasm, their city of Terren ended as abruptly as if a giant knife had sliced through it. The city wall stopped at the bottomless precipice. The old streets ran to their crumbling edge and went no further. The other half of the city, with all its occupants, had vanished when SynâMoreg, Lord of the Abyss, had sundered their world in two. At the chasm, their world began and ended. Only the bridge whispered cruel temptations to the forlorn and those as broken as their world. Like the old guard here, who still clung to hope that there was some manner of escape from the ever-relentless approach of the Blight. Except there was no refuge on the other side. Anyone with eyes could see that.
Deadlands, the land beyond was simply called. There, the sky was gray, dull and cloudless in the day and starless at night. There were no splashes of sunlight on the groundâeven when the sun was highâno snow, no rain, no breeze to stir the dust. Only the deadlands to where magic had been banished. The rocky land was flat, endless and desolate. Nothing stirred, no life, no creature. It was as gray and lifeless as a memory. A reminder of the destructive force of magic. If men could have destroyed the bridge that anchored it to our world, they would have done so long ago.
Finally, Elika saw the guard find his cagey courage. She knew the signs wellâa deep breath, a stiffening of the shoulders, clutched fists, a final glance back toward the city. A glance that was as desolate as the land beyond. He looked back and his deep, tired eyes locked with hers and held. There were others around, and yet it was her gaze he sought his strength in. For long moments, he simply looked at her and she at him. She was careful not to change her expression, not to urge him on or hold him back by anything as small as a careless blink.
His lips twitched into a sad smile.
A choking lump appeared in her throat. She wanted to look away but forbade herself to do so. She would give him the last piece of humanity he would likely ever see again. He did not need pity, just understanding. His passing would not be unobserved, his fate would be witnessed. She would watch and know his fate and would always remember why she hated magic.
He touched his hat to her, turned away and took a firm, bold step across the blood-salt line, quickly followed by that final, irrevocable step onto the bridge. As soon as he did, the roots of the bridge moved and clung harder to the ground. The bridge groaned and heaved, as if taking a soft breath.
The lump in her throat grew larger. There was no turning back for him now. Once there, they never turned back. Whether it was the pull of magic or some insurmountable resolve, she never knew, but the second step always followed the first. And then another, and another. The winds rising from the chasm tore at his coat, ripped the hat off his head and sent it flying into the dark abysm. He paid it no attention, neither halting nor slowing in his step. They never looked back, never wavered. And all too soon, it seemed to her, he reached the apex. He stopped there, at the point where some capricious power decided your fate.
Elika held her breath, her heart racing with dread and fear of that same distant choice before her. She had seen this part countless times and always thought this the worst and cruelest test. The uncertainty, the simply not knowing what the next step would bring, what fate awaited you beyond the apex. Worse still, the not knowing which fate was kinder; that you should reach the other side or âŚ
The old guard spread his arms, as if offering himself to the mercy of magic, and took his last ever step from this world. In the blink of an eye, his form turned to dust and was swept away in a vortex of uprising winds.
Elika closed her eyes and held back tears with everything she had. She never cried, forbade herself that weakness. Everything began and ended with the bridge. It was at the heart of all that was wrong in their world, at the heart of the Blight and the great chasm. It had stolen her very first memories, fed her very first fears. Aye, her story, too, began at the bridge, her first memory, the memory of loss and grief and abandonment. She recalled the faceless shadows of a man and woman hugging her, kissing her ⌠and leaving her. She had watched them cross the bridge into the night, growing distant and fading from her memory. She had wanted to run after them, but the firm, bony hand of a stranger held her back. Elika must have seen what had happened to them. But since then, no matter how hard she tried, she had never been able to recall whether they perished at the apex or reached the Deadlands.
She remembered trying to wrench herself from the dry hand holding her back, and an old womanâs crackly voice saying, âNot your time, precious. I told them so. Told them you must stay behind to hold the world together for just a little longer. And what if you alone made it across without them? What would have become of you then? What would have become of us all?â the voice added in a whisper.
For so long Elika had pondered that memory, seeking some sense from it, some understanding why her parents abandoned her here. What drove them to seek escape in that other lifeless world? Why not wait until she was older and they could have taken her with them? She was older and wiser now and had seen the rotten heart of Terren where humanity was likened to weakness. She had seen the hunger without end, the sickness, the dead unclaimed on the streets, the wealthy looking aside. She knew better than most what drove the broken to the bridge, the despair that drove them to the unthinkable. Some took their children with them. Others left them behind in the world of man to fend for themselves as best they could. There were times when she, too, craved some escape from the filthy streets of Terren. Yet even in those moments, she found herself grateful to have been left behind.
She recalled those vague days of being alone, frightened and hungry, when she had sat there, watching the bridge, imagining her parents walking back across it and sweeping her up in their arms. It was Bad Penny who had found her and taken charge of her. She owed her life to Penny and Little Mite.
She owed only hatred to the cursed bridge for all it had taken from her. Everything wrong in her life was because of it. And despite her fear and hatred of it, one day, she too would be left with nothing but the dreadful choiceâface the Blight or the Bridge to Magic. Death or endless existence as a phantom, haunting the plains of Deadland, were she to reach the other side. To become a shapeless shadow swallowed by the gray land. Neither alive nor dead, slowly drifting away into that fathomless distance, fading, then vanishing.
Magic was the enemy of man. Its echoes drew the Blight toward them. And the bridge kept their world linked to the place where magic and the terrible tsaren had been exiled. Elika lifted her head and filled her vision with the slick, black monster, ugly and menacing, like a misshapen tree.
She never cried, not any more, especially where others like Rory could see her. He was gone now. The street was dark and empty. All the other watchers had run off to loot the old guardâs home of all his scant possessions. The beggar with the walking stick seemed to have lost his courage and had also left. She was alone, just her and this creature of magic that did not belong in their world. It was twisted and ugly, and she hated itâhated it above all else. She wanted her parents back. She wanted to know whether they had turned to dust or crossed together to become shapeless phantoms. Wanted to know why they had not taken her with them. She hated the magic that had irreparably broken their world. The bridge was meant to free men from their terrors. But even now, the Blight was nigh upon them, driving good folk across the chasm to nowhere, save that it was away from here.
She sprang to her feet and advanced on the bridge, wanting to hurt magic as it had hurt so many others. The bridge was made from magic, manâs foe forged into dark flesh. Everything alive could be hurt, killed, destroyed, even the gods themselves. Destroy the bridge and you will stop the Blight, said the priests. Many had tried. Nothing had worked, not fire nor sword or blood-salt. Since the day magic had been vanquished and purged from this world, no power men possessed could damage the bridge. It did not matter. Elika wanted to try. If only to stop it offering false hope to the desperate.
She pulled out a knife from under her tunic. Fury surged through her, solidifying into a ball of power and strength inside her. It grew and grew, feeding on her anger until she could not hold it back from erupting out of her.
Her foot crunched on the blood-salt ⌠sudden stabbing pain struck her stomach. She cried out and bent over, her whole body afire. She stumbled forward, across the salt line, and just as suddenly the pain was gone. She did not think more of it, for the ball of rage was still inside her, and she was there, beside the bridge, closer than she had ever dared approach before. She could feel the heat of it, smell the faint sweet odor, fresh and earthy. It smelled like spring and summer fruits, and rich, tilled earth. Somehow, she had imagined this monster would smell of death and decay. But magic was deceptive. She raised the knife and with a roar stabbed the bridge.
The knife dug in deep, and the bridge groaned and shuddered as if in pain. Except ⌠the knife was not meant to pierce it. Many had tried ⌠Elika staggered back and stared at the steaming, black blood pulsing gently from the wound onto the snow. She had seen city guards and priests use swords and stones and ropes and fire in trying to destroy the bridge. She had watched the kingâs own personal Red Guard try to cut it down with axes made of blood-salt. Nothing had ever broken through its impenetrable magic. But her knife slid in as easily as if the bridge was truly spun from mere flesh.
She backed away. It was impossible. How could she have done this? The knife was still lodged in the black flesh, and the blood continued to trickle, staining the snow a deep, dark red.
Her chest tightened with fear. She glanced around. The houses across the street were long abandoned and crumbling. No one wanted to live so close to the bridge, lest they became infected with its magic. She could see no one, yet she felt watched. There were always watchers by the bridge, waiting for that next loot the death-walkers left behind.
Something brushed her foot. She yelped and jumped back. One of the inky roots was creeping toward her like a fungal tendril. It probed the ground, this way and that, searching for her, reaching for her. Horror gripped her chest. She had never seen it do that, like some foul, unnatural creature of old tales.
She turned and fled without looking back. She ducked behind a corner and stilled, listening. Silence. No one followed. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. Only magic could hurt the bridge. And no one, not even the most powerful of Echoes, those poor souls who had somehow become infected with an echo of magic, could command it. Only the tsaren ⌠or their human mages. But the mages were also all gone, banished to roam the Deadlands as phantoms, or burned long ago in the blood-salt fires to destroy the magic inside them.
Magic inside her ⌠Her skin crawled with disgust. Everything inside her tightened. There could not be magic inside her. She could not be an Echo. Surely, sheâd have known before now if she was. But if anyone saw her ⌠the priestesses would hear of it. They would find her ⌠unless, of course, no one had seen her. Maybe she had not used magic. Maybe it was ⌠it was ⌠what? It did not matter. She had to leave before anyone saw her. She would simply go back to the Hide, where the orphans were likely dividing the old manâs loot amongst themselves.
She pulled down her hood to better cover her face, blended with the shadows of the street, and began to walk as fast as she dared.
Behind her, she heard a soft footstep crunch on icy snow.
âWell, well, lilâ princess. What have you gone and done now?â said the dark, knowing voice behind her.
Without looking back, she quickly turned another corner and ran.
Elika has always feared the ominous Bridge that spans the chasm from the city of Terren to the Deadlands. The Blight, a terrible curse that tuns all it touches to dust, is said to be Magic's revenge on the world of the living after it had been expelled to the Deadlands; and until the Bridge is destroyed, then the Blight will continue to ravage the land until everything is completely destroyed... But almost every day, at least one hopeless soul takes their chances with the Bridge. That choice of a slow, painful death due to starvation and hypothermia or a quick demise as they're turned to dust at the Bridge's apex. A choice few make it all the way across the Bridge, only to be turned into some sort of phantom, moving inexorably slowly, further and further away from the end of the Bridge until they fade away completely. Then, one night, in a fit of inexplicable rage at the Bridge, Elika stabs it, and for the first time in the Bridges history, it is wounded. And hysteria ensues as the people of Terren become fearful that a powerful mage is prowling their streets, and is ready to bring the Blight down on them all...
The Bridge to Magic has that familiar, much loved trope. A young person is found to have a form of magic, and is almost instantly feared or reviled. They have to fight for their family and friends to be safe. Magic is banished in some way, or outlawed. However, what The Bridge to Magic also has is a unique perspective - that people have the choice to cross over towards the Magic, and not everyone makes it. It's powerful imagery of people making a choice that no one should ever have to make; a choice of how they die; making this book not only thought provoking, but also frighteningly close to the bone for too many people in the world today.
If there was one thing that Thornbury could do to perfect Elika's story, it would be to cut out the repetition. If the backstory of the Bridge is mentioned once, it's mentioned a thousand times more. The reader understands the situation, they don't need to be reminded two pages later. It makes reading The Bridge to Magic somewhat clunky and frustrating. And it's not just the Bridge's history that is repeated over and over again; it's Elika's back story too. Yes, we need to know her circumstances - but not to be told the same point over and over. However, this is a small criticism in an otherwise enchanting novel.
S. A.