“And what of you, dragon,” the queen had asked Tavyss. “Can you serve your kingdom and Darnuith?”
“I have no intention to serve Paragon, my queen. I am mated to Medea. My service and protection belong to her and her people.”
“Hmm.” Queen Ferula tapped her chin. “A dragon is a powerful gift indeed.”
“My queen, we do not know—” Zelaria began, but Ferula cut her off with a dismissive wave.
“You are welcome to stay. You will take over the Fatsed Orchard. The wizard has passed away, and we’ve had no fruit since his death. Make the trees grow and you’ll be welcome here always.”
“It would be our pleasure,” Medea said.
“There is only one thing. It is our custom, for our citizens to have a surname. I am Ferula Northstar. What name shall you take as your second?”
Medea thought for a moment, her gaze drifting to her sisters. “Tanglewood, my queen.”
Ferula gave a crooked grin. “Hmm. Fitting. Welcome Medea Tanglewood.”
They’d moved into a simple cottage, and through the steady use of magic brought to life peaches, apples, bon bon fruit, and the most delicious figs Medea had ever tasted. And then, in a feat of magic she wasn’t at all sure would work, each of the three sisters clipped a segment off the end of their wands and planted the pieces in a common hole. Watered with blessed rain and fed with their own blood, the pieces rooted and grew into a new tanglewood tree.
At night she’d lay next to Tavyss and drift to sleep, blissfully tired from a day of meaningful farming.
“Do you regret becoming my mate?” he asked her one night. The solemnness in his tone made her lift her head from his chest to look him in the eye.
“Not for a moment. I think my life began the day you flew over that pool in the garden.”
“I know mine did.”
“There is one thing that could make me happier.” She smiled at him in the darkness. They’d made love then, both opening themselves to the potential for a baby.
As the days rolled by, even her sisters seemed happy. Circe was dating a man from a nearby village who tended creatures raised for meat, and Isis had found a deep friendship with a team of hunters who frequented the ice forest of the west coast of Darnuith.
All was well for a time.
But then one day everything changed.
“Medea? Medea, come quickly.” Circe ran through the orchard toward her, waving her hands. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying.
“What’s wrong, sister?”
“It’s Queen Ferula. She’s passing into the next world. She’s called all witches to her side. There’s a ceremony—some ancient ritual they perform to pick her successor before she dies.”
As if he sensed her distress, Tavyss flew to Medea’s side from where he’d been harvesting fruit. “What is happening?”
Circe brought him up to speed.
Tavyss took on a far-off look. Medea had seen that expression before when he was thinking about the past or his childhood. “It’s called the Sacred Lots. The witches of Darnuith ask the Fates to bless the next queen. It is a solemn ritual. It would be rude not to attend.”
Medea tucked her wand into her sleeve and helped him ready the horses. Together with Circe, they journeyed to the temple at the heart of Mistcraven, called Maelhaven.
Red wooden pillars stretched three stories toward a clay roof. Medea had never been inside the golden doors of Maelhaven—only the queen was allowed inside the heart of the sacred space—but even in the courtyard, the place made her feel both small and significant, as if she were part of a greater magic than herself.
Today the queen lay on a settee at the center of the square, skin tinted with a gray pallor, eyes rheumy and distant. Her breath came in tiny, barely detectable sips.
Tavyss rubbed Medea’s shoulders supportively as they joined the back of the massive crowd. Every witch in Darnuith was there as far as Medea could tell. They gathered in rings around the dying woman.
A few minutes later, Isis arrived, still dressed in her hunting garb. “I heard the horns. Is it true? Ferula is dying?”
“It appears so,” Medea said. She hadn’t known the queen well and observed the proceedings with a measure of detachment.
“Has she been ill?” Circe asked.
An elderly man in front of them turned around to address Circe’s question. “She is two hundred years old, only held together by alchemy. It is her time.”
At the center of the crowd, Zelaria passed her staff over a giant cauldron in front of the settee. At her prompting, the crowd began to move, circling in front of the queen, each witch, young and old, male and female, reaching inside.
“What is this?” Medea asked. “What do we do?”
“Take a stone from the cauldron. If the Fates choose you, it will change color and Ferula will say your name with her last breath,” Tavyss explained.
“But we’re new. Only here six months. Surely we don’t participate.”
The elderly man faced them again and pointed a gnarled finger at her. “All citizens must participate. Everyone with magic. If you don’t, the spell may not work.”
Medea frowned. It seemed wrong to participate given her overall lack of experience with the kingdom.
“Don’t concern yourself,” Tavyss said. “Zelaria has trained by Ferula’s side for decades and made sacrifices to the Fates. If things go as they have in the past, she will be named. That is how it has always been. The ritual is more of a rite of passage.” He gave her a reassuring nod.
They filed in behind the other witches, shuffling patiently as stone after stone was selected from the cauldron, each only as big as her thumb and as smooth as glass. They all looked the same.
After an hour, her legs began to ache and she squeezed Tavyss’s hand. Circe exchanged glances with her and Isis, then produced a root from the pouch on her hip and split it between them. At once, Medea’s energy returned and the pain in her legs faded.
Hours more had passed before they finally reached the cauldron. She selected a smooth silver stone from the bottom and tucked its cold shape into her palm. Beside her, Ferula lay absolutely still, eyes closed, her breath barely discernible. Was she truly waiting to die until the ritual was complete?
Heart heavy, Medea followed the line away from the queen and returned to her place at the back of the crowd.
Tavyss must have noticed her exhaustion because he wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “It will be over soon.”
With every stone selected, the crowd seemed to slip deeper into an atmosphere of solemnity. Not a word was spoken, not even in a whisper. The only sound was a large black bird with a strange hooked beak that circled overhead, cawing in a way that sounded like a cry. Medea watched its flight against the gray sky and wondered if it was a harbinger of death.
Finally all the stones were gone but one. Zelaria selected the last stone and held it toward the sky, whispering an incantation whose words Medea could not understand. All at once, the crowd raised their stones.
Medea did the same, although she fought the urge to drop it because hers had grown quite hot between her fingers. She thought it must be the magic and held on despite the discomfort.
Then, in the quiet, she heard the queen speak. “Medea.”
That couldn’t be right. Had she just said…? She looked at the ancient woman in confusion.
“Medea,” the queen repeated, her voice weak but carrying, whatever magic was at work amplifying its natural volume.
A murmur traveled through the crowd as people opened their hands and checked their stones. Who was Medea? The few who knew her turned to stare in her direction.
“Medea, your stone.” Tavyss grabbed her wrist and thrust her hand toward the sky.
Blue light shone between her fingers and blasted outward as if she were holding a star.
Isis swore and Circe clamped a hand over her mouth. There was a gasp as the witches around her noticed and, one
by one, dropped to their knees.
“No,” Medea whispered. “This can’t be right.”
Her gaze snapped to Ferula, whose eyes were open now and locked with hers. The queen’s mouth stretched into a smile.
“Medea,” she whispered one more time before her body turned to dust and blew away on the wind.
Zelaria’s eyes locked onto hers, the advisor’s face a mask of confusion and some other well-hidden emotion. She gave Medea a tiny, practiced bow.
Hundreds of faces looked up at her expectantly.
With a sharp tap of her staff, Zelaria announced in a strained and shaky voice, “Blessed be, Medea Tanglewood, witch queen of Darnuith!”
Thank you for reading the Tanglewood Witches. If you enjoyed this title, please leave a review wherever you purchased this book.
Medea has found herself in the unenviable position of being named queen to a strange kingdom barely known to her. Will she rise to the occasion? And will becoming royalty in the five kingdoms make it impossible to hide her mating to Tavyss, the true and rightful heir to the kingdom of Paragon?
Find out in Tanglewood Magic, the next novella in the Three Sisters Trilogy!
Meet Genevieve Jack
Award winning and USA Today bestselling author Genevieve Jack writes wild, witty, and wicked-hot paranormal romance and fantasy. Coffee and wine are her biofuel, the love lives of witches, shifters, and vampires her favorite topic of conversation. She harbors a passion for old cemeteries and ghost tours, thanks to her years attending a high school rumored to be haunted. Her perfect day involves the beach, her laptop, and one crazy dog. Learn more at GenevieveJack.com.
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The Tanglewood Witches Page 14