tiny babe. A mere slip of a girl, Emily brimmed with magic. Az sighed. Of all her children, Michelle had the most magic. Little wonder Michelle’s only daughter would be the same.
Before them the ward stones shielding the Sheeriles’ territory dotted the swamp forest. That’s where Kaitlin hid, thinking herself safe and secure in her manor, behind her old wards. She thought them impenetrable.
Mikita and Petunia watched them.
“Are you sure, chado?”
Emily nodded.
“Such a good girl you are.” Az smiled, noticing the tiny tremors troubling the girl’s hands. Scared child. Scared, scared. “Very well.”
“What do I do?”
“Just stand here next to me. Gaston, are you ready?”
Urow’s youngest son nodded his head—butchered his hair that wolf, yes, he did—and adjusted the backpack strapped to his back.
“Remember, the Fisherman’s track. That’s your way back. The wards keep things out, but they won’t keep you in. Don’t stay there. Don’t wait for it to happen, or you might not get out.”
He nodded again.
“Off we go, then.” Grandma rested her hand on Emily’s shoulder, feeling the hard knot of the muscle. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Trust your grandmother, child.”
The girl relaxed under her fingers. Grandmother Az stood straighter and gathered her power. It came to her like a cloud of angry bees, pouring from the leaves and the ground in a flood centered on her. This was the old magic. Mire magic. It had once built an empire the likes of which the world had never seen before. All was gone now, but the magic remained.
Emily gasped. Hungry, Az pulled the power from her, more and more. Emily shuddered and went down to her knees. Her head drooped, her dark hair fanning her face, her magic streaming into Az’s fingers. In that magic, the magic from a living human body, that was where the real power lay.
Az could see it now, the storm of magic draping her like a dark mantle, billowing in the wind of the phantom currents. The witch’s cloak, they called it.
Az felt Emily’s heartbeat flutter in her, weaker and weaker. Enough. She could’ve taken more. Some part of her longed for it, longed for the power, but she shut that part of her soul off, slammed the door in its wailing hungry face. She let her go, although it took all of her will to do it, and her grandbaby fell facedown into the soft earth.
The witch’s cloak coalesced, shaped by her will.
Az punched the air, throwing all of her weight into the strike. The magic burst along her arm, a dreadful needle aimed at the heart of the Sheerile land, where their manor lay. The stones shook in the earth and two of them went black.
A shadowy path opened in the wards, only four feet across and straight as a bolt.
“Now, Gaston! Go!”
Urow’s youngest dashed along the path and within two breaths vanished from their view.
“There he goes,” Az murmured. “So fast. Like the wind.”
Her legs crumbled under her, but Mikita’s hands caught her before she fell. The ward stones grew paler and paler, slowly returning to their normal gray color. The protective spells were flaring to life, reclaiming the path she had made.
“Getting too old for this,” Az murmured before sleep claimed her.
CERISE emptied the last of the ash, took a small embroidered satchel from the bin, and stepped into the circle, aware of her two cousins joining her. Catherine’s face was bloodless even under the mud. Ignata bit her lip.
They stood at the pole. Cerise took a small step forward. No turning back now. She had to do this and she had to do it right. The old magic was unruly and always hungry. Asking it for help was like playing with fire. Give a hair, and it would swallow you whole. Fear skittered down her spine. Cerise pushed it away.
Ignata began to chant, gathering magic to her. A moment later Catherine’s low voice joined in.
Cerise tugged the silk strings of the satchel, dipped her hand inside, and brought out a handful of seeds. She had only done this twice before, both times with Grandma Az leading, and it terrified her so bad, she had nightmares for weeks afterward. Raste Adir drove people wild. If you slipped up, your body was no longer yours. It did things on its own, and all you could do was watch in panic. Raste Adir made you forget who you were, and if you weren’t careful, you would forget yourself forever.
Her fingers shook.
Cerise passed the satchel to Ignata, who closed it and took it out of the circle and came back, still chanting.
Cerise knelt before the mound of mud and peat under the pole, where Lagar’s blood dripped down, and gently dropped the seeds onto the mud.
Magic shot through her in an electrifying pulse and spread, tingling, through her body, spilling from inside out. Beside her Ignata swayed. Catherine murmured the chant like the soft whisper of the wind through the leaves.
Grandmother Az’s words streamed through her mind.
The magic swirled within her and rushed out, like the tide, sucked into the mound.
The seeds moved. Their outer shells cracked. Tiny green roots thrust through, pale and fragile.
The magic poured out of Cerise in a heady rush, feeding the plants.
The roots thickened, raising the seeds, burrowing deep into the bloody mud, turning brown. Green sprigs spiraled up, twisting about the pole, biting into Lagar’s body with green shoots, climbing higher and higher.
Sweat broke out on Cerise’s forehead, mixing with the mud.
Leaves burst on the shoots, bright, vivid, their tiny veins red like Lagar’s blood. Lagar’s corpse disappeared beneath the blanket of green.
A deep ache gnawed at her insides. The mound demanded more magic. More.
Buds sprung from the greenery and split open. Flowers unfurled, yellow and white and pale purple, sending dizzying perfume into the air. It swirled around Cerise, sweet like honey. A giddy happiness flooded her. So beautiful … Her body swayed, dancing. She tried to stop herself, but her limbs escaped her control.
Catherine crashed to her knees and laughed softly.
The green mass shivered. A muted roar rolled through the clearing as if a dozen ervaurgs declared their territory all at once. Magic shot through the leaves, ancient, powerful, and hungry. So hungry.
Lagar’s face thrust through the rustling leaves, framed in the cascade of flowers, his skin dusted with golden pollen.
Raste Adir had answered the call.
Lagar’s eyes glowed with verdant wild green. Thin shoots snaked from his body, hidden beneath the moss and leaves, reaching out to her, ready to drain her dry, filling her mind with promises. Cerise saw herself caught in the branches, her body a dry husk, one with the green; saw the shoots surge further, saw kneeling Catherine become a spire of green; saw Ignata lifted off her feet by a vine, her face serene and lost among the blossoms …
Cerise jerked back, raising her defenses.
The old magic hovered just beyond reach. Its pull was so strong.
On the ground Catherine sobbed, happy tears spilling from her eyes. The vines reached for her.
Cerise stepped in front of them and gathered her magic. It rose behind her in a dark cloud, splaying forth. The shoots shrank back, shivering.
