Cerise squared her shoulders. She was a swamp witch like her grandmother and her grandmother’s mother and her grandmother’s grandmother before her. She had skill and she had power, and the old magic wouldn’t wrestle her mind from her.
“Where is my mother?”
Lagar’s mouth opened. A cloud of pollen erupted from his throat, swirling in a glittering cascade like golden dust.
“Answer me.”
Ignata made a small mewing noise behind her.
A shimmer ran through the pollen. An image rose within the cloud: a vast field of water with a lonely gray rock rising out of it like the back of some beast, and beyond it, a hint of a large house … Bluestone Rock. Only a day away!
The branches reached for her. She snapped her witch’s cloak and they fell back.
“Where is my father?”
The pollen shifted. No image troubled the cloud—Lagar didn’t know.
“What does Spider want from our family?”
The branches swirled, winding tighter and tighter. Lagar’s eyes flared with dark green like two swamp fire stars. Something burned deep in that glow, something terrible and powerful, clawing its way to the surface.
“Obey!” Cerise snapped.
The pollen glittered once again, shifting into a tattered notebook … It looked like one of Grandfather’s journals.
Lagar’s body split like an opening flower. Dark blue tentacles sprouted from it, streaming to her through the image in the pollen.
She pushed her magic before her like a shield. The tentacles smashed into it with a ghostly howl. The pressure nearly pushed her off her feet.
“Run!”
Behind her Ignata grabbed Catherine and pulled her up to her feet. Cerise backed away. Her nose bled. Her head grew dizzy.
“Clear!” someone called. She stumbled out of the circle. The tentacles flailed behind her, reached the ash, and shrunk, shriveling.
“Burn it!” Richard stepped into the circle and hurled gasoline onto the leaves from a bucket. Someone flicked a match. The greenery went up in flames.
A howl of pain burst from Lagar. He screamed like a living thing being burned alive.
Catherine sobbed, rocking back and forth.
Cerise curled into a ball and tried to block out Lagar’s cries. Now they knew. Now they knew where to look.
KAITLIN opened the lid of a mother-of-pearl box. Her fingers brushed the treasures within. A lock of Lagar’s blond hair, cut when he was a child. The tip from the first arrow Peva had shot. One of Arig’s twigs … She remembered when Peva had told him that his fingers were too weak for a good draw, and for a while wherever Arig went, he had a twig in his hands and would be snapping little pieces off of it.
She pursed her lips. Where did she go wrong? How could she have raised weak sons that had failed her?
She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and touched the wrinkled skin around her eyes. Old … She had grown old. She had given all of herself to her children. That’s what a mother was supposed to do. And they failed her.
Kaitlin glared at her reflection. Her skin may be sagging. Her hair may be graying. But her will was iron. It was in her eyes, just like her father used to say. “You have iron in your eyes, Kaitlin. You’re strong. Life will hurt you, but you’ll survive, my daughter. The iron doesn’t give in.”
She squared her shoulders. There were magics she could work. Dark things, vicious, forbidden things she could let loose on the Rat pack. And all of the old crone’s magic couldn’t save them then. Oh, the Guard would come, and the militia would gather and whine about the outlawed magic. Let them come. She would hold them off.
Perhaps she could even start anew. Time had robbed her of her fertility, but there were plenty of children in the Mire. She could pay some woman for a good strong child, and Kaitlin would have another son. And this time, she would make no mistakes.
She turned to the couch where she had left her shawl and frowned when it wasn’t there. For a moment she searched and then saw it hanging over the porch railing, where she had stood this morning seeing Arig off.
Strange.
She felt around for a trace of foreign magic and found none. The shield of wards stretching from her house remained intact. Besides, none would dare to enter her domain. Nobody would be that stupid.
Kaitlin strode onto the porch, tiny sparks of power breaking over her skin. She passed her hand over the shawl. Nothing. Not spelled in any way, the pattern as intricate as ever. She must’ve forgotten it here on the porch.
Kaitlin lifted the shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and stood for a moment, breathing in the Mire smells. The afternoon was winding down. Soon the night would fall. The dark time. The Rats would be in their Rathole, celebrating, bloated with wine and success. She had a few things to show them.
A faint prickling in her hand made her glance at her fingers. Thin gray residue sheathed her fingertips. She stared at it, puzzled, rubbed her fingers with her thumb, and gasped as the skin and muscle peeled off.
Shocked, she whirled, searching for traces of offensive spells, chanting to raise her defenses. Power surged and formed a reassuring, solid wall of magic to guard her from the world. She could chant herself out of it. Again and again she whispered, but the skin on her fingers refused to heal.
The shawl. She tore it from her body and screamed as the skin on her neck came off with it. Numbness crept into her fingers and seeped into her arms.
This couldn’t be. She was iron! She was strong.
Her legs failed, and Kaitlin crumpled onto the porch. Numbness clutched at her chest. Her heart skipped a beat … The numbness burst into pain. It surged through her body, ripping into her insides with savage teeth.
She tried to call out to the workers in the stable, but pain had locked her throat in a fiery collar and her voice refused to obey.
I’m dying …
She wouldn’t let the Rats have the land. Not her land, not her house, not the wreck of a body that once had been her husband. With an enormous effort of will, Kaitlin poured the remnants of her life into one last magic.
GASTON dashed along the twisted Fisherman’s track. He had tossed the sack and iron tongs he had used to handle the shawl into some bushes to reduce the weight, but it didn’t make much difference. His legs were beginning to tire. Gaston leaped over a fallen tree. The weeds flanking the overgrown path slapped his shoulders as he ran, dusting his skin with yellow spring pollen.
Behind him a roar rose, a dull muted sound like the voice of a distant waterfall. He glanced over his shoulder and saw weeds snap upright in the distance as if pulled straight by an invisible hand. Pines groaned in protest.
He ran. He ran like he had never run before in his life, squeezing every drop of speed from his muscles until he thought they would tear from his bones. The roar grew louder. Tiny rocks pelted him. The air in his lungs turned to fire.
Gaston saw a glimpse of the river ahead and launched himself toward it.
Not going to make it.
He hit the water and dove deep into the gloom. A tiny ervaurg shot past him, spooked by his presence.
Above him the sky turned yellow.
TWENTY-THREE
