Cerené closed her eyes, thinking if she focused strong enough, she could create fire and burn the evil Huntsman.
Shew was approaching to pick Cerené up, not intimidated by Loki, but then let out a shriek as she glanced up at him.
She was too late.
Loki, angry Shew had killed most of his Huntsman, raised his sword at Cerené who still had her eyes closed, trying to create fire with her mind.
Sadly, he was closer to Cerené than Shew, who could not believe her eyes. Loki’s sword had landed a blow on Cerené.
Cerené opened her eyes, disappointed she could not create fire, and glad she wasn’t dead. When she saw what had happened to her outstretched hand, she looked puzzled. A fountain of blood squirted in the air. Cerené looked at Shew with pleading eyes, wondering if this was really happening to her.
Loki had cut her hand off.
“I told you not to leave me!” Shew yelled at her and bent over to pull her up on the unicorn.
As stubborn as Cerené was, she pulled away from Shew and ran toward Loki again, stretching out her other arm, and screaming, "Moutza, you Queen’s Bastard!”
Loki let out a small demeaning laugh, and waited until the little ashen girl approached him.
“This first one was for thinking you could kill me,” Loki said. “This is for being stupid,” he simply chopped her other hand off, and rode away again.
“You little piece of shit!” Shew screamed at Loki and ran toward Cerené, trying to pull her up. This time Cerené wasn’t stubborn. She had that heartbreaking look in her eyes as if questioning how this could possibly be her fate. Shew pulled her up before she fainted.
All she could think of now was saving Cerené. Looking to the left, she noticed they were near the Wall of Thorns. She remembered when Cerené told her that each sleeping beauty in the Field of Dreams was a girl who had been killed. In order to live again, they had to dream and provide sand and tears for a hundred years, and then they could come back to life revitalized.
Shew didn’t know how to resurrect people through the blowpipe, nor did she know about the power of True Names. The Field of Dreams was her only choice to save Cerené. Cerené was dying in her hands.
To go to the Field of Dreams, Shew had to pass through the Wall of Thorns. Shew rode toward it, not giving a damn about the thorn bush. If she rode fast enough, she should be able to pierce through it. Even if she didn’t, she’d give in to the thorn bush and allow the unicorn to take Cerené to the Field of Dreams.
As she rode, she noticed Loki following her again, but she intended to be faster. Once she entered the thorn bush, a couple of thorn vines crawled around Cerené and the unicorn, sniffing them. They slashed slightly at them, and sniffed their blood. Finally, they let them go.
I’m so close. I can make it to the Field of Dreams.
When the vines sniffed Shew, it took them some time before they slashed at her, tasting her blood.
Instantly they went crazy.
“Can’t you understand that I’m not the enemy,” Shew shouted. “Stupid thorns!”
Shew had come to a point where shedding blood had become really insignificant. She felt the thorns cut at her arms, her legs, and her face. It didn’t matter as long as there was the slightest hope to save Cerené.
If only she could ignore Mozart’s Magic Flute playing in her ears.
Somehow, she did this time.
Being seduced by music was only meant for the weak, not Chosen Ones when they’d learned their powers. The thorns had to do more than cut her skin to stop her.
Finally, Shew crossed to the other side into the Field of Dreams. Her dress was soaked with blood from every pore in her body
She stopped near one of the sleeping beauties, and eased Cerené down off the unicorn. She was hardly speaking. Shew located a free puddle of water and laid Cerené in it. She went back, undressed one of the girls in red, and dressed Cerené. She placed a glass urn to her right and one to her left, wondering if she’d done it the right way.
“Did I make fire?” Cerené muttered.
“Don’t talk now,” She urged her.
Cerené was already fainting. She had no more words to say, disappointed she didn’t live long enough to make fire. She held tighter, not knowing what else to do. She was waiting for a sign. Maybe she’d see Cerené crying sand and tears like all the other sleeping beauties, which would mean Cerené was saved.
“Tay,” Cerené tried to talk gain, her eyes white, not staring at Shew.
“Say nothing,” Shew held her face, trying not to think about the fountain of blood spurting out her arms. She suddenly remembered reading a gruesome fairy tale called the Girl Without Hands in the Schloss when she was imprisoned.
Who are you, Cerené? Who are you, really? Cinderella, the Phoenix, the Girl Without Hands, or my mentor?