The Black Witch

At this angle, it’s as if she’s pointing her wand not at the Icaral, but at me.

The clouds move above her head in the direction of the church, giving the illusion that she’s the one moving instead, inclining her head toward me reproachfully, sizing up this fraudulent copy of herself.

You could never be me.

The white bird pokes its head over my grandmother’s shoulder, startling me, its eyes filled with alarm. It moves its head from side to side in warning, as if a bird could make such a human gesture.

Suddenly, a strong, bony hand slams against my mouth. An arm flies around my waist and locks my elbows against my sides in a viselike grip. I fall backward onto a hard body, and a foul smell like rotted meat washes over me.

My fear is a delayed reaction, like the pain that hesitates briefly when you touch something so hot it will burn and scar. Catching up, my heart begins to beat wildly as a nasal, taunting male voice hisses into my ear.

“Don’t bother screaming, Black Witch. No one will hear you.”

I struggle wildly, straining against the binding arm, kicking at him, but he’s too strong. I can’t wrench myself free, and I can’t turn my head to see the face of my attacker.

The thunder becomes more insistent, the wind surging as the storm continues to move straight toward the cathedral.

I desperately scream against his hand and scan the plaza for help. But there’s no one.

A second figure springs from the shadows between two nearby buildings and scrambles toward me on long, sickly thin limbs. It’s bald and naked from the waist up, its flesh pale and emaciated, multiple gashes marking its chest and arms as if it’s been lashed repeatedly, its face contorted into an evil smile, red lips surrounding decayed and pointed teeth.

But its eyes...oh, its eyes—they’re a swirling, opalescent white, devoid of humanity, devoid of a soul...like the living dead. And there are grotesque stumps jutting out from its shoulder blades. The stumps move in and out rhythmically in a disgusting mimicry of flight, and a terrifying realization washes over me.

It used to have wings.

It’s an Icaral demon. My screams turn to sobs of terror as I catch a glimpse of a dagger in its hand.

I raise my palms in supplication, a silent, desperate plea for mercy as I begin to grow faint.

The demon scuttles forward with surprising quickness and agility and grabs my wrist so hard, its long fingernails dig into my skin, piercing my flesh. I let out a muffled cry.

It holds tight onto me, its soulless eyes widening in shock. “It is She! It truly is the Black Witch!”

“Then do not hesitate!” snarls the creature restraining me. “Kill it, Vestus! Kill it before it can become like Her!”

My knees buckle as the creature called Vestus pulls his dagger back and raises it above his head. Thunder smashes against the sky.

“History will now be rewritten, Black Witch!” Vestus shrieks. “The Prophecy will be shattered, and the Icaral will live! You will die, and we will rise!”

Everything seems to happen in slow motion. The creature’s hand jerks backward to ready his attack, but then a longer blade bursts through the creature’s chest. A fountain of blood spurts out, covering me, and I’m falling, falling, the creature behind me also falling away, freeing me. I slam into the cold, hard ground, aware of the overwhelming, ferrous smell of blood.

And then a soldier is before me.

Lukas!

He pulls his sword out of the Icaral and pushes the creature forward, dead, its head slamming onto the stone tile inches from me with a sickening crack.

I whirl around just in time to see one of my aunt’s guards dragging off the second Icaral, this one taller and more muscular than the other, but bloodied and unconscious. Thunder cracks loudly as the wind strengthens and pushes my blood-soaked clothing flat against my skin.

A movement beyond my aunt’s guard catches my eye—just a small glimpse in a dark alley beyond the plaza, beyond the road.

Another Icaral looks at me for a split second, then disappears from sight.

A strong hand grabs my arm. I jump in fright and whirl around to see Lukas shouting something at me. I close my eyes tight and jerk my head from side to side, desperate to pull myself together, to focus. I open my eyes as all the sound around me rushes back in with a roar, like a dam opened.

“There’s another one!” I cry to Lukas, pointing toward the alleyway.

Lukas pulls out his wand and aims it in that direction. A burst of blue-green lightning spears from his wand’s tip and explodes into the alley. It incinerates the walls of the buildings on either side with a crackling boom that sends a sharp pain through my ears.

Lukas yells to the guards as four other Mages run toward us, their wands drawn, their cloaks edged with rows of silver lines.

Lukas calls out orders, and all of the Mages run off in the direction of the alley.

“Are you hurt?” Lukas shouts at me as the heavens open up and the rain pours down, the water mixing with the blood of the Icarals, forming dark, violent puddles. I nod, and Lukas pulls me to my feet. He braces me with a strong arm around my waist, his other hand still gripping his blood-stained sword. I grip my throbbing wrist as he guides me across the plaza.

Lightning flashes around us as we quickly make our way toward the cathedral. Soldiers fan out over the plaza, and a small crowd of Gardnerians, including my aunt and Echo Flood, look out from the open cathedral doors with horrified faces.

Marcus Vogel stands amongst them, the calm eye of the hurricane.

And the bird, the white bird, sits above the doorway in a hollowed-out, sheltered crevice, as still as the artwork adorning the cathedral.

Watching me.

* * *

Lukas paces back and forth across the room like a caged animal, glancing over at me every so often, his jaw set tight, face ruddy, his brow furrowed with angry impatience. Like me, he’s soaked through with rain and blood, his sword sheathed and hanging at his side. His pacing is interrupted when one of my aunt’s guards comes in to speak with him, the two of them talking so low I can’t make out what they’re saying. Lukas’s hand is on his hip as he speaks to the man, both of them tense, the guard taking a subordinate stance as Lukas gives him a series of orders. The guard nods and leaves with a look of serious purpose.

I’m sitting on a wooden chair in Priest Vogel’s cathedral sanctuary, shivering uncontrollably, feeling dazed and frightened, surrounded by black-robed priests.

Vogel is looming over me, holding outstretched hands above my head, his eyes firmly closed as he intones a prayer in the Ancient Tongue. An image of dark Icaral wings and lifeless trees flashes behind my eyes and sends a vicious chill through me.

The priest to the left of Vogel swings a gold ball filled with incense from a long chain. Pungent smoke wafts from holes in the sphere, burning my nose, my stomach clenching with nausea.

Even though they’re closed, I can feel Vogel’s eyes.

Echo sits next to me and holds my hand tight.

“What’s he doing?” I ask, still in shock. This can’t be real. I’m trapped in a nightmare. None of this can be real.

“Shhh, Elloren,” she whispers kindly. She gives my hand a squeeze of solidarity. “You have looked into the eyes of an Icaral. To do this is to pollute your soul. Priest Vogel is exorcizing the stain.”

My wrist burns where the Icaral dug its claws into my flesh.

“I want my uncle,” I whimper, tears starting to fall. I feel lost among all these unfamiliar people, and frightened by the need for ritual purification.

And I’m scared of Vogel.

My aunt stands in the doorway with two more priests, old men with snow-white hair. They speak in hushed tones, their expressions grave.

I drop my face into my hands and begin to sob. My shivering gets worse as Priest Vogel drones on and on, rattling me with his remote chanting of prayers and the sense of his dark void swirling around me. I cry as the chanting falls away and the dark void subsides, only half aware of Lukas asking for a moment alone with me.

The room grows quiet.

“Elloren. Look at me.”

I jump at the sound of Lukas’s stern voice and the feel of his strong hand gripping my arm. I straighten and pull my tear-soaked hands from my eyes.

He’s down on one knee, his head level with mine, eyes full of fire. “Stop it.”

His harsh tone stuns me into astonished silence.

I choke back my tears as anger at his treatment wells up within me. Wasn’t he right there? Didn’t he see those...things? A dark fury takes root, replacing my fear with steel-cold anger.

“That’s better!” Lukas snarls as I glare at him with as much hatred as I can muster. “You are not weak!”

“How can you say that?” I spit out, wanting to strike him. “You’re wrong!”

“No, I’m not,” he vehemently counters, still gripping me. “I can sense power in you. You look exactly like your grandmother, and her blood runs through your veins. Your uncle has done you a grave disservice by not preparing you for something like this.”

“Don’t you dare speak against my uncle!” I cry. I try to jerk my arm away from him, but he holds on tight.

“No, Elloren, it needs to be said. He did this to you by leaving you unarmed and ignorant!”

An uncomfortable doubt rises in the back of my mind. I beat it back.

“You don’t know anything about my uncle,” I say firmly. “You’ve never even met him!”

“They were at your uncle’s house, Elloren.”

I stop trying to wrench away from him. “What do you mean?”

“The Icarals. Galen got a confession from one of them before he killed it. They escaped from the Valgard Sanitorium. One of them was an empath. He found out about you from a worker there—someone who knows your aunt. They were waiting for this, Elloren—for the next Black Witch to be found. They went straight to your uncle’s house, but you were gone. They found your uncle sleeping, and the empath read where you were from his thoughts by touching him. If your aunt hadn’t pulled you from there, you’d be dead right now.”

I stare at him, wide-eyed and frozen. No, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real. “I’m powerless. Why would those...things think that I’m the Black Witch?”

Lukas doesn’t answer. He just keeps his unwavering stare fixed on me.

I already know the answer, though. It’s my blood. Her blood—that’s what the creature sensed. And I look just like her.

“The third Icaral,” I finally say, my voice strangled. “Did they find it?”

Lukas takes a deep breath. “No.”

“And my uncle?” I ask, almost in a whisper.

“He’s fine,” he says, his voice losing its angry edge. “They weren’t after him, Elloren. They were after you.” Lukas’s hand loosens then falls away from my arm. “We’ve sent guards to your uncle’s house as a precaution.”

“But what about Rafe? And Trystan?”

“I’ve already sent guards to find them and escort them across Verpacia’s border, if they haven’t crossed already.”

“And once they’re across?”

His lips turn up at the edges. “You won’t have to worry about them once they cross the border. It’s ward-magicked. Verpacia’s military force is formidable, and they have the help of the Vu Trin sorceresses. You’ll be safe there, as well. You’re safe now. The Icaral’s weak. Its wings were amputated long ago. Your aunt’s guards and I will escort you to University, and we’ve already sent word to the High Chancellor about what’s happened.”

My wrist is beginning to throb. Miserable, I turn it over for his inspection, bloody scratches and gashes ringing it where the creature gripped me. I wait for Lukas to express some sympathy.

He takes my wrist in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. His eyes meet mine and his expression goes hard. “You’re lucky,” he says. “It will scar and be a constant reminder to prepare yourself. These are battle scars, Elloren.”

“Why are you so harsh?” I cry, wrenching my wrist away.

“Because,” he grinds out as he grips both arms of my chair, “you do not need to be coddled!”

“You don’t even know me!”

He shakes his head from side to side and takes a breath. “You’re wrong,” he says, his voice gone low.

He stands up, a horizontal line of blood splashed across the front of his tunic, short tendrils of wet hair plastered to his forehead. We’re both damp and sweaty and smell like blood. The image of Lukas slaying the Icaral demon flashes into my mind, rapidly deflating the remnants of my anger.

He saved my life.

Lukas holds his hand out to me, and I reach up to take it.

“You are equal to this, Elloren,” he says firmly as he helps me to my feet.

I raise my eyes to meet his. “I’m not the Black Witch, Lukas.”

He sighs deeply and looks at me with resignation. “Let’s go,” is all he says.

* * *

A few hours later I’m in a carriage with Lukas, traveling to Verpacia, the two of us in clean, dry clothing.

“Lukas will protect you,” Aunt Vyvian reassured me back at her mansion, as she directed Urisk servants to quickly pack my things into my travel trunk, plus an additional large trunk she’s provided for me. “You’ll be safer in Verpacia. Especially with Lukas as your guard.”

She could barely hide her smug satisfaction at the way events have played right into her hands, pushing Lukas and me firmly together. But I’m too rattled to be anything but grateful for her assistance, and for Lukas’s help and protection.

I think about how many things my aunt and the others tried to warn me about. It’s just as it says in our sacred text, just as the images on the stained-glass windows portray things to be. The Icarals are hideous things of great Evil, and need to be destroyed before they destroy us. And Sage’s baby, if this is its destiny—to turn into one of those things—then the Mage Council is right in wanting to take it from her, stripping it of its wings and its power.

Killing it, even.

I shudder to think of those creatures armed with overwhelming power at their disposal, and I know that if my attackers had been in possession of their wings, I’d be dead.

And if my aunt is right about this, and about my need to leave home, if her intuition is so good, maybe she’s right about other things, as well. Maybe the Selkies are only dangerous, feral animals—just as horrible as the Icarals when they have their skins. And maybe she’s right about Lukas and wandfasting.

I look over at Lukas as he sits in stony silence, staring out the window through the rain-battered glass, and a surge of gratitude washes over me.

Oh, Uncle Edwin, I anguish, why did you leave me in the dark about what might be out here waiting for me? Did you have any idea? Why didn’t you protect me?

He didn’t know, I realize. It turns out that my sweet uncle is dangerously naive about the world, cooped up in Halfix, isolated amidst his beehives and violins and childish good intentions.

As much as I love Uncle Edwin, I’m forced to consider that he’s not only dangerously ignorant, but he may actually be wrong, too. About so many things.

And Aunt Vyvian might be right.

I resolve to find out the truth for myself.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Verpacia

I stare out at the sheeting rain as I cradle my bruised wrist. After several hours I lose track of how long we’ve been on the road, all the farms and towns bleeding into each other. Lukas is equally silent and deep in thought.

My fear has settled into an anxious unease. I look over at Lukas and wonder what he’s thinking. He’s brooding and remote, but I feel a kinship with his aura of gravity that makes me feel less alone.

Eventually we slow, and I make out one of the Ironwood outposts of our military. A cloaked soldier waves us through.

“The border,” Lukas informs me.

Three trade routes converge here, and we’re gradually stopped by the traffic, most of the horses pulling wagons heavily weighed down by goods.

Thunder crashes, and I strain to see through the rain. A long, ivory wagon passes close by. It’s surrounded by a large contingent of ivory-cloaked soldiers astride pale steeds. The soldiers have white hair, and their eyes are silver.

“Gold merchants,” Lukas says, noting my interest.

Amazement cuts through my lingering haze of fear. “Are they Elves?”

“You’ve never seen them?”

I shake my head and look back out. The Elves’ ethereal whiteness is pristine, as if the dirt and grime of this stormy day hasn’t touched them at all.

My eyes are drawn upward by the shifting winds.

I can just make out the western edge of the Verpacian Spine, an impassable mass of vertical rock that borders the country of Verpacia. The white-gray rock seems to reach right up to the heavens and disappears into the storm clouds as the rain batters the bleached stone. Multiple guard towers are carved into the cliffs, hewn from the rock itself. Cloaked archers in pale gray uniforms the color of the Spine climb about the towers like nimble mountain goats. They appear to be keeping a close eye on the convergence of traffic seeking entrance into Verpacia through this break in the Spine.

Our carriage door opens, and an archer pokes his head in. He has a bow slung over his shoulder and rain drips copiously off the edge of his hood. He looks like an Elf, his eyes gleaming silver, but his hair and skin are a silvery-gray only slightly darker than his eyes.

“Lieutenant Grey,” he says congenially, the words heavily accented. He glances over at me, and his smile is whisked right off his face. He blurts out something in what must be the Elfhollen language, his tone one of shock.

“Orin,” Lukas says carefully, as if trying to calm him, “this is Elloren Gardner.”

“She’s not back from the dead, then?” Orin breathes, his eyes locked tight on mine.

Lukas smiles. “Only in appearance.”

Then, to my surprise, they launch into a serious conversation in Elfhollen. Orin gestures sharply toward me several times, his expression deeply conflicted. I stiffen, rattled by Orin’s confrontational tone.

Lukas shoots him an incredulous look. “Do you honestly think I’d bring her here if she had any power?”

I glance sidelong at Lukas, surprised. He’s told me more than once that he suspects I have power. My heart thuds nervously, realizing that there’s danger here. And he’s protecting me.

Orin narrows his silver eyes at me one last time, shuts the door and waves us through.

I let out a breath of relief, then turn to Lukas in amazement. “You speak Elfhollen?” Even if he’s well versed in languages, it’s still a surprising choice.

Lukas smirks. “I have an odd talent for picking up the more obscure languages.” He eyes me appraisingly. “How much do you know about the Elfhollen?”

I consider for a moment. “They’re half-Elf, right? With Mountain Fae blood? I’ve read a little about them.”

“It’s a nice combination, really,” Lukas muses as he throws his arm along the back of his seat. “Deadly archers with perfect balance. It’s lucky for Verpacia that the Alfsigr hate mixed-breeds. The Alfsigr Elves were idiots to drive the Elfhollen from their land.” He flicks his finger in the direction of the sentry towers and the agile Elfhollen soldiers stationed in and around them. “They’re one of the only reasons Verpacia is able to keep control of the Pass. That, and the Vu Trin border wards.” Lukas bears his teeth. “And the Vu Trin sorceresses.”

I look over at Lukas, surprised by his matter-of-fact way of discussing half-Elves and sorceresses. And his friendly demeanor toward one of them. Most Gardnerians are as distrustful of half-Elves as the Alfsigr Elves are. It’s understandable—we were almost wiped out several times. Of course we want to keep our race pure and intact.

All around us, the Elfhollen soldiers brave the icy rain to search through wagons: looking under secured wax cloth, opening up barrels, questioning the drivers. Some of the soldiers are accompanied by heavily armed women garbed in black, their hair and eyes as dark as their uniforms. Their uniforms bear glowing blue rune-marks that are so beautiful, I can’t tear my eyes away,

“Are those Vu Trin soldiers?” I ask Lukas, transfixed by the sight of the lethal-looking women and their shimmering rune-marks.

Lukas nods, eyeing them with what looks like respect. “They’re a guest military force here. They control the western and eastern passes through the Spine. Their presence is part of the treaty agreement that formally ended the Realm War.”

“It’s strange to me,” I say, marveling at the curved swords the Vu Trin carry at their sides and the rows of silver throwing stars strapped across their chests. “Women as soldiers.”

Lukas seems amused by this. “The men of their race don’t have any magic. But the women more than make up for it, believe me.”

A tall Vu Trin motions sharply for a group of Kelts on horseback to halt, her face steel-hard. Her uniform’s arms are marked with lines of circular ward symbols that glow blue. A smaller Vu Trin woman, with only one glowing sleeve ward, searches the Kelts’ saddlebags.

“What are they looking for?” I wonder.

“Smugglers.”

“Of what?”

Lukas shrugs. “Weapons, spirits...pit dragons.”

Spirits don’t surprise me. Forbidden by our religion, they’re illegal in Gardneria. A number of passages in The Book of the Ancients touch on the evil of intoxication. But my eyes widen at the mention of dragons.

“Pit dragons?”

“They’re a particularly vicious type of dragon,” Lukas explains. “Used as weapons. And for sport.” He turns from the window to glance at me. “They’re pure dragon. They don’t shift.”

I’ve only seen dragons twice. Both times were in Halfix, the dragons high in the sky. They were black Gardnerian military dragons, used for transport and as powerful weapons. But I know there are other dragons rumored to be somewhere in the Eastern Realm. Wyverns who can breathe fire and shift to human form. And Wyrm shapeshifters who breathe lightning and can control the weather.

Our carriage hits a bump and jostles me from my thoughts. It’s all stop and go for quite a while, but soon the traffic lessens and we’re on our way.

After a few hours the rain thins and I gasp as the tops of the northern and southern peaks of the Spine become visible, like two great walls bracketing the entire country of Verpacia. I’ve never seen anything as high as these snowcapped and intimidatingly beautiful peaks.

I’m glued to the window for the rest of the ride. There’s so much to see, the thrill of the unknown lighting me up.

We pass a busy horse market full of foreigners, our carriage slowed to the pace of walking by the heavy road traffic. Fascinated, I take it all in.

Elves are showing off ivory mares, the Elves’ hoods down to reveal gracefully pointed ears and long, white hair decorated with thin braids. Near the Elves are a group of muscular women garbed in black pants, boots and red tunics that shine brightly with fiery crimson rune-marks. The glowing symbols remind me of the blue rune-marks used by the Vu Trin sorceresses, though these women are a far more mixed group. Some are pale with blond hair, and others have skin in varying shades of brown and a rainbow of Urisk hues.

They’re as heavily armed as the Vu Trin sorceresses, and many have facial markings shaped like the runes on their clothing, as well as some piercings. A gleaming metal hoop is stuck right through the bottom of one red-haired woman’s nose, her ears sharply pointed and multiply pierced with dark metallic hoops.

“Amazakaran,” Lukas informs me. “Horsewomen of the Caledonian mountains.”

I stare at them, wide-eyed. “Are they as dangerous as the Vu Trin?”

Lukas laughs. “Just about.”

“They look like they aren’t really one race. Except they’re all dressed similarly.”

“The Amaz allow women of any race to join them.” He smiles at me and motions toward them. “They’d let you in, Elloren. And train you to use an ax like that.”