Coruth met him at the door. She shoved it open with one skeletal hand and beckoned him to follow her. “You’re late,” she said, as if they’d had an appointment.
Malden had no time to wonder what she meant. He was too busy being horrified. Cythera lay on a pallet in the front room, naked save for a sheet that covered only one leg. It looked like she’d thrown it off her in the convulsions of some terrifying dream. Her skin was pale and clammy and slick with some foul-smelling unguent. Her eyes were wide-open, but when she blinked he saw that arcane symbols had been painted on her eyelids.
“The Guardian of the Gate!” she screamed. “He sees right through me! He judges me!”
Malden was about to demand what was going on, then stopped himself. He knew. This was Cythera’s initiation. The ceremony that would transform her into a witch. He knew there were rules about such things-ironclad laws that no man dared break. If he spoke at the wrong time, the consequences could be dire.
Coruth stared at him with one bloodshot eye. The old witch looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Normally she stood tall and erect, but now she was as stooped and grotesque as-well, as a witch in an old woodblock illustration. Had she sprouted a wart on her nose and clutched a broom, she might have been a caricature of her profession.
“Here,” she said, and shoved a dagger at him. He took it, for the same reason he’d kept silent so far. The weapon was a thin-bladed knife wholly without ornament, and seemed unfit for ceremonial purposes. Its point looked very sharp.
“What do I do with it?” Malden asked.
“Put the point here,” Coruth said, tapping a point just left of Cythera’s sternum. “If I give you the signal, drive it straight into her heart.”
“I can’t do that,” Malden said. “Not-Not to her.”
“Worried about losing your swiving partner?” Coruth said, and her mouth curled into a wicked smile. “All good things should come to an end, boy. Only true evil is eternal. It’s got no bottom.”
Malden didn’t know what to make of that. “My love for her is true.”
“Every boy in the history of fucking has said as much. And they were all honest, at least at the moment they said it. You think I don’t understand love? You think I never had a leman? I had to give all that up to become a witch, and I did it, because Skrae needed me. Cythera will make the same sacrifice, because the times require it.”
“Surely there’s another way-she could renounce magic and-”
“Stop your blathering, boy. Time is tight. Put the point where I showed you.”
“I can’t kill her!”
“Unless she’s a bigger fool than I think, you won’t have to,” Coruth told him. “Now do as you’re told! Much more than you know depends on it.”
Malden bit his lips for a moment, but in the end he did as he was asked. He made sure to touch the point so lightly to Cythera’s skin that she would barely feel it.
Not that she was likely to feel much. Her eyes were unfocused and her pupils changed size rapidly as he watched. Cythera was looking at things invisible, perhaps things very, very far away.
Occasionally she struggled, as if trying to break the grasp of some unseen monster. Occasionally she cried out. Sweat ran in thick rivulets into her hair though she shivered with cold.
“I see the old man with the lantern,” she reported at one point. “His light shines on a forest. He is so very lonely-he wants a kiss.”
Malden glanced up at Coruth. The old witch shook her head.
“No, I understand now,” Cythera said. Malden had a feeling she wasn’t talking to anyone in the room. “His vigil can’t be interrupted. I’ll go down to those woods, in case he tries to follow me- Oh. Oh! The trees are-the trees are alive. They’re so… alive.”
“Where is she?” Malden whispered.
“It’s not so much a place,” Coruth told him. “It’s a path between two places. It only exists in a relational sense.”
“Ah,” Malden said, as if that explained everything.
“There are two paths through the forest, but which is the right one?” Cythera asked. “The path on the left is so straight. It goes right to the end of the forest. It’s paved with gold, with… with power and… fame.”
Coruth leaned close to Cythera’s ear and shouted, “What of the other path?”
“What? Someone… someone is whispering… I- Oh, the path on the right looks so hard. It bends and curls back on itself, and there are so many thorns. I don’t think it even goes where I want to go!”
Malden would have told her to take the easier path, to get out of those woods as quickly as possible, but Coruth silenced him with a glare.
“Choose wisely,” the witch shouted. Then she nodded at Malden.
This was the moment. The moment when she would tell him to stab his lover through the heart. He couldn’t- there was no power in the world, not god or man or witch, that would make him do that.
But then he understood exactly what was at stake. It was like he gained the second sight himself, if only for a moment. Cythera could choose the path of sorcery, the path of demonology and pure will, which way lay madness and deformity and evil, but also great power. Or she could choose the path of the witches-magic that she herself could not control but only influence, magic that came from the world around her. Magic with rules.
If she chose sorcery, he would be asked to kill her on the spot.
And still he knew-he would not do it. Even if she was to become like her father Hazoth, wicked and cruel and utterly without sympathy, he would still rather have her alive.
Coruth disagreed.
Luckily for them all, she chose the path on the right.
Her suffering was terrible. “The thorns tear my skin! My feet are bleeding,” she moaned as she writhed on the pallet. “Where am I headed? I can’t see anything-I’m blind! I’m dying!”
There was more-much more-and Malden could understand none of it. There were trials for Cythera to face, gates for her to pass. She met every trial with fear and pain but passed them all because she’d been trained how.
Eventually her voice trailed away into raving syllables that failed to form words at all. Malden worried that some deadly test had been failed… but Coruth sank back in a chair and closed her eyes. Soon she began to snore.
He threw the dagger on a table and knelt by the pallet, clutching at Cythera’s hands. Her fingers were limp in his and he doubted she could even tell he was there, but still he clung to her. For hours he waited by her side. He understood now that Coruth hadn’t just wanted someone to hold the dagger. She had brought him here-though he thought he’d come of his own will-to comfort Cythera. To comfort himself.
The day wore on. Once, Malden heard a great stone crash into the city, but for the first time he didn’t care where it landed. He had no thought but for his love.
Who was his no more.
Eventually Cythera’s eyes fluttered closed and she slept. She stopped shivering and her body relaxed. Malden pulled the sheet up over her form. It was cold inside Coruth’s shack. It was wintertime.
When she woke, her eyes were bleary and she lacked the strength to even sit up. But she smiled at him and placed one warm hand against his cheek. They began to whisper to each other, saying nothing at all, really. He didn’t ask what had changed, because he already knew. She made no promises, nor did she need to.
They let Coruth sleep.
In time, when Cythera rose from the pallet, she wrapped her arms around herself, hiding her nakedness. Malden rushed to find one of her velvet gowns so she could be clothed, but she shook her head. Instead she took a shapeless robe from a chest in Coruth’s bedchamber. The robe of a witch. She pulled it over her head and lifted the hood over her sweat-greased hair.
When she kissed him, it felt wrong. Like being kissed by a statue, perhaps.
“Marry me,” he begged. Desperation overcame him and it felt just like fatigue. “It can’t be too late. Give this up and marry me.”
She placed a hand on his cheek. She neither smiled nor frowned. “It’s forbidden of a witch,” she told him.
“By whom, damn it? Is there some council of covens I can appeal to? Is there a witch queen somewhere who
