I don my gray cloak. Fear dogs my steps down the hall and into the courtyard, where I find Agatha and Bart racing around. They bleat and fall in behind me like I’m leading a goat parade, and we go all the way to the portcullis, a massive black iron obstacle. I don’t even know how to raise this thing.
“Will you open the gate for me?” I ask politely.
Like that will work. And it doesn’t.
Bitterburn keeps what it claims, and I suppose I’m no exception, but I refuse to give up this easily. I’m not a prisoner. I’m not cursed. And this place has answered my requests.
After some searching, I discover a pulley to one side. I haul with all my strength, and eventually the portcullis raises enough for me to crawl out. The goats follow. I wait for that feeling, the lead in my feet like Njål mentioned, but I only feel odd about leaving. What if Njål notices that I’ve gone and thinks—oh, never mind. Surely I won’t be gone that long.
I turn to address the goats sternly. “Do not eat what I drop, you understand? This is serious business and if you interfere there could be consequences.” Bart bleats in a querulous tone, and I interpret it as a serious inquiry. “I’m not sure what will happen, but I expect it won’t be good. For all I know, wayward magic might turn you both into people, then you’d have to wear shoes and get jobs. How horrid would that be?”
Agatha seems suitably chastened, ready to treat this occasion with the solemnity it requires. They both follow from a respectful distance. So far, everything is fine. The portcullis is open behind me, as if granting me permission to do this and return.
“Let none pass that would do harm. These walls shall keep us safe and warm. My will is strong, and I say it clear. I am now the mistress here.” The first time I intone the words, I feel faintly ridiculous, so the rhyme comes out as a whisper.
I’m supposed to do this every six alns. Honestly, I’ve no idea if I even have enough supplies to cover the perimeter. But something happens as I walk. My steps become firm and measured like I’m marching to war. No longer am I quiet or hesitant. I proclaim the chant repeatedly in loud, ringing tones, as if my blood and will can make this true.
I lay claim. I lay wards. I feel them forming, soft pulls of energy that tickle beneath my feet. They’ve been created before—though I’m not sure by who—but it’s been a long time since anyone touched them, and the strength of what’s already there astounds me, as if I’ve learned there’s a dragon sleeping in a cavern beneath the keep.
Though I’m only walking, flicking ash, and speaking words, this is physically taxing, and it gets worse when I must climb, because Bitterburn is built into a cliff. It would have been easier to do this from inside the keep, but the book said it’s best to craft the wards externally. I imagine the witch who wrote it was talking about a small cottage, not a citadel like this one, but she’s the expert, not me.
It requires all my resolve not to look down. Yet I still stumble and nearly fall, grabbing on to the icy rocks. Clinging to them, I catch a glimpse over the side, all sheer stones, plummeting into the frozen gray of the lake below. Arms trembling, I haul myself upward, the basket shaking on my arm. I tumble onto safe ground and roll over in the snow. So cold. In time, I get to my feet and stay close to the walls, resuming my progress, scattering ashes and chanting.
Oddly, the goats are still with me. They haven’t gotten bored or wandered off. Agatha and Bart nudge me onward, so I keep moving. My muscles burn with this unaccustomed exertion, and I’m only half done. I can do this. I can.
I trip, coming down on the other side, tumble down the slope and scrape my legs. The blood won’t stop me. Shakily, I use the implacable stones of Bitterburn’s external wall to pull myself upright and keep moving. With each step I take, the wards get stronger, attuning to me like an instrument only I can play.
By the time I round the last corner, closing the circle, my voice booms like thunder. Or maybe it only feels that way to me because my entire body thrums with energy, and I see a shadow behind Bitterburn, a dreadful coiled thing that afflicts the keep but isn’t part of it. Maybe I’m so exhausted that I’m starting to hallucinate, but I stagger onward, determined to finish what I’ve started.
When I reach the portcullis from the far side, scatter the last of the ash, and speak the words for the final time, the pressure in my head gives, like an explosion contained inside my skull. I tumble backwards and Bart tries to catch me, but he’s a goat. So I fall on top of him and Agatha nudges me with her head. As I lay on the cold dirt staring up at the sky, my ears ringing, I realize that it’s gotten dark.
The stars are out. I haven’t seen them in so long.
In the village, there was no time to look, always so much work to do. And here, I just don’t come out to the courtyard at night. The ice statues are creepy, and it’s cold as the heart of someone who’s stopped loving you. For a few moments, I gaze up at the brilliance of the distant stars.
Just for a little longer, I’ll rest.
Bart and
