The Black Witch Read online

  I follow Paige through the winding hallways, populated only by the occasional, harried Urisk maid rushing past and deferentially ignoring us.

  As we step out onto a cherrywood-banistered mezzanine, I feel my throat go dry. I pause at the crest of a sweeping staircase and look down over a mammoth, circular hall.

  A sea of important-looking Gardnerians lies before us, uniformly garbed in black. Roughly half of them are in military uniform, most high-ranking, a few wearing the silver-edged cloaks of the magically powerful.

  First, there are a few curious glances our way. Then someone gasps. A hush falls over the room.

  I blink down at them, distracted by the enormous chandelier that dominates the foyer—hundreds of candles set on the branches of a carved, inverted frostbirch tree hung with leaf-shaped crystals. It suffuses the entire room with a dancing, changeable glow.

  My eyes circle around the foyer, my gaze drawn toward a man standing in its center. He’s tall and slender and wearing a long, dark priest’s tunic, the image of a white bird emblazoned on his chest. He’s younger than most priests, with compelling razor-sharp features, a high forehead and straight black hair that falls to his shoulders. His green eyes are so intense and vivid, they seem to glow white-hot, as if lit from within.

  He’s staring at me with a look of recognition so strong, it throws me.

  An image bursts into view—the scorched shell of a tree, black limbs rising up against a barren sky.

  Sucked into the image’s dark void, I grasp at the balcony for support.

  The tree flickers then sputters out.

  I squint up at the chandelier and let out a deep breath. Perhaps a trick of the light. It had to be a trick of the light.

  Heart pulsing, I glance back down at the priest. He’s still staring at me with disconcerting familiarity. My aunt is standing close beside him. She beckons me to join their circle with one graceful, outstretched hand, her dark tunic and skirts winking sapphire.

  Paige puts her hand on my shoulder, her voice soft and encouraging. “Go ahead, Elloren.”

  Feeling rattled, I force one foot in front of the other and focus on the rich, emerald carpeting of the stairs that mutes my footsteps and blessedly keeps me from slipping on my new, slick heels, my hand tight on the shiny railing. The cherrywood steadies me, the source tree solid and strong.

  As I step off the last stair, the wide-eyed, appreciative crowd parts, and soon I’m standing before the young priest. The image of the lifeless tree sputters to life once more. Thrown, I blink hard to clear the image, and it rapidly fades to nothing.

  There’s something so wrong here. It’s like I’m standing before a deep forest, everyone sure that nothing’s amiss. But a wolf is waiting in the shadows.

  I meet the priest’s overpowering stare.

  “Elloren,” my aunt beams. Her hand sweeps toward him. “This is Marcus Vogel. He sits on the Mage Council with me and may well be our next High Mage. Priest Vogel, my niece, Elloren Gardner.”

  Marcus Vogel reaches out with serpentine grace, takes my hand and leans to kiss it, fascinated curiosity lighting his gaze.

  I fight the urge to slink back.

  His skin is oddly warm. Almost hot. And he’s looking at me as if he can see clear into the back of my head to the image of the tree still reverberating there.

  “Elloren Gardner,” he croons, his voice unexpectedly throaty. There’s a subtle, seductive quality to him that sets off a probing heat deep in my center—like an eerie invasion. I tense myself against it.

  Vogel closes his eyes, smiles and takes a deep breath. “Her power. It courses through your veins.” He opens his eyes, his gaze now riveted on my hand. He traces a finger languidly over the skin of it, and an uncomfortable shiver works its way up my spine. Vogel lifts his gaze to mine, eyes intent, his voice a lull. “Can you feel it?”

  I’m cast into a troubled confusion. “No,” I force out as I try to unobtrusively tug my hand away. He holds firm.

  “Has she been wandtested?” His question to my aunt comes out thick as dark honey.

  “Yes, several times,” my aunt assures him. “She’s powerless.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his unflinching eyes boring down on Aunt Vyvian.

  My confident, unflappable aunt visibly wilts under Vogel’s penetrating stare. “Yes...yes, quite.” Aunt Vyvian falters. “Her uncle assured me of it. He had her formally tested again only last year.”

  I look to my aunt, astonished by both her cowering behavior and her words. No one wandtested me a year ago. I haven’t been tested since I was a small child.

  Why did Uncle Edwin lie?

  Vogel’s black void presses into me, warm and relentless, and I inwardly shrink back from it, eyeing his fiery stare with mounting trepidation.

  Why does he unnerve me so much when Aunt Vyvian and so many other Mages clearly worship the ground he walks on?

  Vogel releases my hand and I pull it back protectively, fingers repeatedly clenching, trying to throw off the disturbing feel of him.

  “What a pity,” he laments, reaching up to touch my face with deft, artist’s fingers. I resist the urge to recoil. He tilts his head in question and breathes deeply, as if smelling the air. “And yet...there is something of Carnissa’s essence about her. It’s strong.”

  “Ah, yes,” my aunt assents with a wistful smile, “she does have some of Mother in her.” Aunt Vyvian proudly launches into a description of my musical accomplishments, my easy acceptance into University.

  Vogel’s half listening to her, his eyes fixed on my hands. “You’re not fasted,” he says to me, the words flat and oddly hard.

  Defiance flares, deep in my core. I look straight at him. “Neither are you.”

  “Good Heavens, child,” a neatly bearded Council member puts in, a golden Council M pinned to his tunic. “Mage Vogel’s a priest. Of course he’s not fasted.” The Council Mage shakes his head and titters a nervous, apologetic laugh toward Priest Vogel.

  Vogel ignores him. “She needs to be well fasted,” he says to my aunt, his eyes tight on mine.

  “She will be,” Aunt Vyvian assures him.

  Vogel briefly turns to my aunt. “To someone of considerable power.”

  She smiles conspiratorially. “Of course, Marcus. She’s under my wing now.”

  “Has she met Lukas Grey?”

  Aunt Vyvian leans to whisper something into Vogel’s ear, her stiff skirts rustling. The other members of their circle fall into easy conversation with each other.

  I barely hear them, distracted by the feel of Marcus Vogel’s penetrating stare.

  The sound of a boisterous group entering finally draws my attention away.

  Fallon Bane sweeps into the room. She’s surrounded by a throng of handsome military apprentices in slate-gray uniforms, as well as her military guard and a few other officers decked out in soldier black. Orbiting them is a smattering of lovely young women.

  But none is more beautiful than Fallon.

  If she possessed a gown made of the same fabric as mine, she quickly abandoned it. The lush gown she now wears is a spectacular, glittering affair that flies in screaming defiance of the accepted dress code—scandalously purple on the edge of black, rather than black on the edge of purple. The two military men she’s flanked by possess her same features, stunning eyes and smug grin. They must be Fallon’s brothers—one of them taller, his uniform black, while the other wears military-apprentice gray. And they both bear five stripes of silver on their arms.

  Fallon instantly zeroes in on me. She lifts a hand as if taunting me, and sends a spiral of smoke rising up that flashes a rainbow of colors. The crowd erupts into delighted “oohs” and “aahs” as all the attention in the room pivots toward her. The older military men in our circle eye her with wary deliberation. Military app
rentices aren’t supposed to use magic unless they have permission—it can be grounds for dismissal from our Mage Guard.

  The military commander near my aunt gestures toward the officer beside him with a subtle patting of the air—let it go. My head starts to throb. Apparently Fallon Bane isn’t just powerful. It seems she exists independent of all the usual rules.

  Fallon jerks her wand, and the colored smoke disappears in a riot of multicolored sparking. The young people surrounding her laugh and applaud.

  Fallon resheathes her wand, narrows her eyes at me, leans in toward her taller black-clad brother and murmurs something as the others listen in. They all give each other looks of surprise, then turn to peer at me with expressions of amused disgust.

  I clench my toes stiffly, heart sinking, and wonder what lies she’s spreading about me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Prophecy

  After my aunt gives us leave, Paige leads me quickly away. Her arm’s threaded through mine as she pulls me through a pair of open, ornate doors and into a huge ballroom. Orchestral music swells around us, and I find myself quickly caught up in the grandeur of it.

  We’re surrounded by well-to-do Gardnerians, some whirling on the dance floor. Many of the people we pass gasp at the sight of me, smile appreciatively and come forward to extend compliments to my “most excellent family.” Some Urisk servants in smart white tunics circulate with golden trays of small delicacies. Other Urisk serve food from a large table that holds a wide assortment of offerings set off beautifully by vases of red roses, everything richly lit by the multiple branched candelabras that grace the table.

  Paige leads me through the crowd toward the food, then gives a start as she spots Fallon and her friends entering, surrounded by Fallon’s military guard. Paige hurriedly grabs two plates, throws some candied fruit on them both and pulls me into a dim corner, the two of us partially hidden by a gigantic potted fern.

  “Is that Sylus next to Fallon?” I ask as Paige hands me a plate.

  Paige’s brow goes tense as she nibbles at a sugared gooseberry. “Yes, that’s him.”

  I shoot her a sympathetic glance as I take a bite of candied cherry. If Sylus Bane is anything like his sister, it’s the worst of luck for mild Paige to be fasted to him.

  I glance around as Paige picks at the berries, her fingers quickly becoming sticky from the sugary fruit. My eyes widen in surprise as I catch sight of familiar faces.

  “It’s... Sage Gaffney’s parents,” I murmur to Paige in astonishment. They’re in the broad hallway just off to the side of the ballroom, dressed in their usual high-necked, dour, conservative garb. Their expressions are solemn and pained, and they’re being hugged by a series of well-wishers, the peoples’ faces full of grave concern. I scour the room for other members of their family and find Sage’s oldest brother, Shane. He’s at the other end of the food tables, standing beside another potted fern, dressed in his soldier’s uniform and glowering at the crowd.

  Paige places her hand on mine in caution. “Elloren, you can’t say her name. And you shouldn’t go to them. Something terrible has happened...”

  “I know,” I tell her. “I know all about it. But I don’t understand. Why can’t I say her name?”

  Paige swallows, her eyes flitting toward the Gaffneys fretfully. “She’s been Banished.”

  “Banished?” I blanch, my mouth falling open. It’s a ritual cutting off. Like a funeral. Reserved for those whose actions are so heinous, their very existence is to be erased to restore honor and purity to their family. “But...my aunt told me they’re trying to help her.”

  Paige glances over at Sage’s family, her expression mournful. “I guess she didn’t want to be helped.”

  I remember how mad Sage was. Giving birth to an Icaral demon—it’s enough to drive anyone mad. An image fills my mind of Sage weaving me wreaths of ribbons and meadowlark flowers when I was a child. Of Sage letting me play with her little goats. And later, as teens, of Sage patiently teaching me how to embroider intricate designs. We’d sit under the broad oak tree that lies halfway between her estate and my cottage, quietly sewing Ironflowers along the hems of our garments. I always admired her for her quiet grace and artistic ways.

  I set my plate down. “I’m going to speak to her brother.”

  Paige fidgets. I can see she wants no part of this, that she’s scared by the Gaffneys’ proximity to a real-life nightmare, but she doesn’t stop me as I cross the ballroom to Shane’s side.

  * * *

  Shane’s hand is grasped around a crystal cup tightly as if he’s trying to decide whom to throw it at. He’s shorter than most of the young soldiers here, but compensates for it with the wiry, athletic build of a fighter—all lean muscle and angry, coiled energy.

  “Shane,” I say carefully as I approach, looking around and keeping my voice low. “I heard about Sage.”

  He grimaces sharply. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to say her name?” He gestures toward his family with his cup, a disgusted look on his face. “They might Banish you, too.”

  I glance over at the Gaffneys, troubled. “What happened to her? Is she okay?”

  His expression darkens with worry and he shakes his head. “I don’t know, Elloren. I don’t know where she is. No one knows. And my younger sisters have run off with her.”

  My breath catches tight. Her sisters, too! I remember the surreal sight of Sage heading into the wilderness and feel a sharp spike of guilt. Oh, Ancient One, I should have said something...

  He shakes his head again in disbelief. “They sent the entire Fifth Division out after them. But they couldn’t find them. It’s like they all disappeared into thin air.”

  The Fifth Division is made up of the best Gardnerian trackers. It’s impossible to hide from them. They gained notoriety during the Realm War, ferreting out secret enemy bases, locating hidden groups of dangerous Fae. It’s rumored that the best of them can read a week-old trail left behind in the woods. I know all this because they’ve been actively recruiting my brother, Rafe, for a few years now.

  “Isn’t that your division?” I ask. “Why aren’t you out with them?” Shane’s a tracker. And a talented one at that. Just like Rafe.

  Shane’s face twists into a mask of bitterness. “Well, Elloren, it seems they thought I lacked the necessary level of detachment needed to kill my own sister.”

  My face blanches. “Kill her?”

  Shane’s expression turns pained. “She didn’t just give birth to an Icaral, Elloren. They believe she’s given birth to the Icaral.”

  I’m frozen into stunned silence.

  We all know of the Prophecy, set down by the late Atellian Lumyn, one of the greatest Seers our church has ever known.

  A Great Winged One will soon arise and cast his fearsome shadow upon the land. And just as Night slays Day, and Day slays Night, so also shall another Black Witch rise to meet him, her powers vast beyond imagining. And as their powers clash upon the field of battle, the heavens shall open, the mountains tremble and the waters run crimson...and their fates shall determine the future of all Erthia.

  Lumyn was considered to be a prophet, his writings read by all pious Gardnerians and second only to our holy scripture, The Book of the Ancients. He died when I was a child living in Valgard, and I still remember the crowded streets on the day of his funeral, the communal outpouring of grief.

  Mage Lumyn accurately predicted the rise of my grandmother to power and her battle with an Icaral demon. He set down his final Prophecy soon after my grandmother’s death and the end of the Realm War, and it sent waves of shock barreling through Gardneria. My people thought the Icaral demons were defeated. That they were finally safe from the Icarals’ terrible fire and winged darkness. But now an even greater demonic threat loomed on the horizon.

  “The time is here,” Shane ra
sps in a harsh whisper. “The Church Seers have confirmed it. And not just them. The Seers of other races, too. They’ve all read the same message—the Icaral of Prophecy is here. A male, possessed of his wings and full powers. Every other male Icaral has been captured and stripped of its wings. Don’t you see, Elloren? It has to be my sister’s baby.”

  “No.” I shake my head, desperate to refute this. It’s too awfully bizarre. How could kind, thoughtful Sage give birth to the demon of Prophecy? “It can’t be...”

  But I know from his expression that it can.

  Shane looks down at his punch glass, barely able to contain his misery. “Did you know he beat her?”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? Tobias. Quite the temper that one has.” He looks around at the crowd, anguish breaking through. “You know, she did everything they ever wanted her to do. All of them. He started in on her soon after she got to University. That’s why she ran off with that Kelt.” Now he’s grasping his glass so hard I fear it might shatter. “He took advantage of her,” Shane grinds out, fury swimming in his eyes. “Isn’t that just like a Kelt? He used my sister, forced his filthy self on her and now...” He breaks off, his eyes glazing over with angry tears.

  I reach out for him, but he flinches away from me.

  “Shane, it can’t be,” I press, undaunted. “The Prophecy isn’t just about an Icaral. There has to be a Black Witch, too, and there isn’t anyone with that level of power...”

  Shane shoots me a look of wild incredulity. “Of course there is. Or there will be.” He glances pointedly across the room at the Banes.

  My throat tightens. Fallon Bane. The next Black Witch. Sent to kill the demon baby of Sage Gaffney. It’s the stuff of nightmares.

  I turn back to Shane, my voice weak. “Do you really think Fallon Bane could become that powerful?”

  “Yes, at the rate her power’s growing.” Shane’s face closes down, his voice going hard, devoid of all hope. “There’s nothing that can be done about it, Elloren. It’s all over for my sister. Go back to your family. This isn’t your affair.”