It was jarring to hear that phrase from the Coven’s leader. Her mother was the most powerful witch in the world. She could do anything.
“Why not?” Tamsin’s voice was so quiet she wasn’t certain she had spoken aloud.
“Because this was my mistake. A miscalculation.” Vera pushed herself away from her desk and moved toward her bookshelves. She kept her back to Tamsin, her fingers brushing the covers of books containing spells that were as old as the world. “When you are the Coven’s High Councillor, your loyalty must lie with all witches,” she said, tugging a slim book from the top shelf and flipping idly through the pages. “But when you are a mother…” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable. “Sometimes your priorities change.”
Tamsin frowned. Vera had never seemed particularly interested in being a mother. Certainly, she’d been in her daughters’ lives, as their teacher, an authority figure—a mentor, even. But not as a parent. Their relationship was not warm. Tamsin was a person, born from another person, valued and cherished for her power. Nothing more.
“But you didn’t contact me. Not once in five years did I ever hear from you.”
Vera closed the book and clutched it to her chest. “I knew you would find your way. You are strong. You were always going to survive. Your sister, however…” She trailed off again, her eyes far away.
“Didn’t.” Tamsin hated how bitter she sounded. It wasn’t Vera’s fault Marlena was dead. It was her own. Her rash decisions and desperate need to be loved had done this. And no matter what, she would always have to carry it, like a stone in her pocket, with every step she took on this earth.
“I’m sorry,” Vera said, her eyes still focused on the stars shining outside the tower’s tiny window. “It was the only way. The only way life Within could continue as usual.”
Tamsin knew she was talking about her refusal to save Marlena. Tamsin saw her mother’s reasoning despite the fact that she did not understand it. One could not come before the many. As Vera had said, her loyalty had to lie with all witches.
“It was my fault,” Tamsin whispered, her breath hitching in her chest.
Vera set the book down on her desk. “No, Tamsin, it was mine. You couldn’t stay here. You knew that. They would have killed you. I should have killed you, but you were so young. You had so much potential, and… you were my daughter. I couldn’t bear to lose you. So I sent you away.”
“I deserved it,” Tamsin said, and the words felt right. Honest. “I killed her. Amma, too.”
Vera sighed, running a hand through her river of curls. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” She swore darkly under her breath. “I had hoped this would be easier, but there isn’t time to get it right.” She exhaled sharply, moving back to stand before her daughter, her expression apologetic.
“Tamsin…” Her mother’s voice shook. “The dark witch is Marlena. Your sister isn’t dead.”
FOURTEEN WREN
Wren’s wrists were bound, her knees pressed against an unforgiving marble floor. She blinked blearily in the dimly lit room, trying to get her eyes to adjust. It was massive, all vaulted ceilings, tall windows, and ornately carved columns. The high ceiling created an impossible chamber of sound—the music, the screeches, the lyricism of past spells, bouncing about the rafters in a cacophony so chaotic and grating that Wren wanted to slap her hands over her ears and run screaming from the room.
Instead she took a breath, trying to steady the nerves fluttering in her chest. The darkness was heavy and thick despite the hundreds of tapers lining the walls. Though each candle dripped wax, the fire hummed a tune that told Wren the flame would never reach the end of the wick. The light would never burn out.
Wren shifted, turning her attention to the nearly twenty witches filtering into the room. Some, with rainbow-colored magic, lined the stone walls, their eyes curious and expressions muted. Others were more stoic, their magic older, less colorful but more refined, gray like the sky or stone.
The six with ancient magic stood directly before her. Wren’s nose was overwhelmed by the strong scents of their power (rain, lightning, figs, paper, sweat, and iron, respectively), and her eyes swam with the shimmering, protective enchantments they wore like cloaks. If she had to guess, she’d place their ages anywhere from one hundred to three hundred years old.
Wren squirmed within her bindings, her ears ringing. Leftover magic kept prodding her menacingly, like fire irons. She was in the Witchlands, yet it was nothing like what she had envisioned. She had pictured arriving with grace, exuding confidence, her power speaking for itself. Instead she was dirty, bound, and broken.
She wished Tamsin were with her. She also hoped she never saw Tamsin again. She took a breath, trying to steady the nerves fluttering in her chest. How could Tamsin have kept her mother a secret?
Even witches have mothers, Wren. She could practically hear Tamsin’s flat expression, could perfectly picture the roll of her eyes. It wasn’t as though Wren had assumed Tamsin would share all her secrets. What was surprising was the magnitude of those secrets, the truth of Tamsin’s past. There was still so much about Tamsin she did not know.
Wren’s many questions were silenced as she caught sight of the six ancient witches still staring suspiciously down at her.
“This meeting of the Six is in session.” The witch who smelled of paper spoke. He was a wizened old man bent over nearly double, his eyes a milky white. He was perhaps the oldest person Wren had ever laid eyes on. Yet his voice was strong.
“I do not recognize you,” the old man wheezed, “although of course my memory has been known to fail.” Two of the six exchanged significant looks. “Who are you, and what are you doing with the banished witch Tamsin?”
Wren could do nothing but gape at him. Banished? She tried to reach for her braid, but her wrists were bound, the magic hot against her skin.
“Well?” the old man demanded.
Wren was having a difficult time finding her voice.
“She made it through the Wood, Barrow,” a gray-haired woman said, her voice more patient than her expression suggested. “That means she’s magic. The only question is, what kind?” She turned her attention to Wren. “What’s your name?”
“Wren,” she managed.
“Well, Wren,” said the woman, “are you a witch?”
Wren darted her eyes around the room. She took a deep breath. “No,” she finally said.
Whispers worked their way through the hall.
“Leya,” a second gray-haired woman called. “Come here.” Leya, the red-lipped girl who’d met them at the border, stepped forward, studying Wren with interest. An aura of magic—a full spectrum of colors, different from the single strands possessed by the witches—hung lazily about her head like a crown. There was no mistaking it: Leya was a source.
It wasn’t until the girl’s brown eyes slid up to the same space above Wren’s head that Wren remembered that Leya, as a source, could see Wren’s magic too.
The source stepped forward, circling Wren in a predatory way. She tapped a finger to her red lips theatrically. Nerves fluttered in Wren’s stomach. Her whole life, she had hidden her true self from her father, from the world. Now she would be revealed before an entire roomful of witches.
Leya stopped moving. She could hardly be older than Tamsin. Her eyes were calculating, but not altogether unkind. As she reached out a hand to touch Wren, Leya’s lips quirked downward, as if in apology.
She moved, faster than lightning, to wrap her hand around Wren’s wrist. There was a jolt in Wren’s blood. The source’s fingers were like fire. Wren’s magic slithered toward her like a snake, making her skin squirm. Leya made a small, thoughtful sound, then let go of Wren’s arm, leaving behind the lingering scent of ocean spray and starlight.
“She is a source.” Leya turned to face the Six. “Strong enough, but very undisciplined.”
All six witches broke out in a flurry of heated whispers, their voices bouncing ominously off the black marble walls. But Wre
n only had eyes for Leya, her proud jaw, the restless energy in her hands. The two of them held the same power, but they’d led very different lives. Wren had kept herself and her magic hidden. Leya had been shaped by the Coven. It was like looking at a reflection in rippled water. A glimmer of what Wren might have been.
“Settle down.” The gray-haired witch who had spoken first was on her feet, hands raised. The hall fell silent. The witch turned to Wren. “Now that we know what you are, why don’t you tell us what you are doing here?”
Wren looked desperately around the room for a friendly face. Once again, she wished Tamsin were here, armed with a quick jab or dour remark. Instead she was alone, completely out of her depth. All she had was the truth. “Tamsin and I are here to hunt.”
Leya let out a small splutter of incredulity.
The gray-haired woman held up a hand. “Are you?” She peered down at Wren with guarded interest. “And why should we allow you to hunt? A banished witch and an unregistered source?”
Wren swallowed. She didn’t like the way the woman had said the word “unregistered.” It made her sound like a criminal. Someone who had been intentionally negligent rather than torn in two, half her heart with the magic inside her, the other half with her fearful father.
“Because we are a team, twined together by a magically binding contract. We have no choice but to hunt. Unless you want to add our lives to your dark witch’s body count.” Her voice shook, her heart beating like the frantic fluttering of a moth’s wings. She could hardly believe the brazenness of her words. More than that, she could hardly believe the truth of them.
Whispers built upon one another like rain during a summer storm.
“Very well.” The first woman pressed the tips of her fingers together. “You will be allowed to hunt.” Wren’s heart swelled. “But we have reached another verdict: When the dark witch has been vanquished, you will return here to begin your training. From this day forward, you will be unable to pass through the trees back into the world of the ordinary folk. Your only place will be here, Within.”
Wren froze, her palms sweaty and cold. “Sources cannot leave the world Within?”
She hated the way her voice shook, so weak it fell flat against the dark marble floor.
The witch raised a single white eyebrow. “Sources are permitted to leave, pending approval. You, however, are not.”
Wren gaped at her. “Why?”
“Because you denied us your power. Sources are dangerous, Wren. Surely you know the stories. Even the ordinary folk tell them. Your power made the rise of the dark witch Evangeline possible. Sources allow witches to utilize magic consequence-free. Without feeling the effects of their spells, witches become greedy. They then turn toward dark magic for its ease, never mind the cost. We need to ensure that you are properly protected both from witches and from yourself. To do that, you must remain Within.”
“But…” Wren scoured the room for a single ounce of sympathy. She was being blamed for the actions of one witch. But the eyes of the Six bored right through her. Leya’s eyes would not meet her own.
“There is nothing more to be said.” The witch coughed delicately. “Do you agree to serve the Coven?”
Now, when she did not want them, Wren could feel every single eye in the room.
Once she no longer loved her father, would she have the right to leave him too? It felt wrong to agree. To give up the possibility of seeing him again. But as she glanced at the stoic faces of the Coven, Wren knew that, once again, the choice she was facing had only one answer. If she wanted to live, if she wanted to find a cure for the plague, the only answer was yes.
“I agree to serve the Coven.” Her voice dripped with resentment, but the Coven didn’t seem to care. She was released from her bindings. Yet before she could rub the raw skin around her wrists, the woman reached out to grab her, squinting down at Wren’s left arm. Wren squirmed beneath the witch’s hot skin, but her grip was like iron.
“Leya, come.”
The girl approached the platform. She still refused to meet Wren’s eye, even as she offered the woman her hand.
The cloud above Leya’s head swirled, extending a vein of violet. The source sent her magic forward, rushing toward the witch until the color had been drained from the cloud hanging above her head. It was an intricate dance, magic swirling through the echoing hall. Wren watched, openmouthed. It was the first time she had ever seen a source at work.
When the violet magic rested entirely in the witch’s hands, she began to speak: guttural, twisting words. As she did, a blinding heat spread across Wren’s inner arm like she was being stabbed by one thousand needles. Ink crept across her skin, arranging itself into a swooping arc topped by a line of four circles, each intersecting the next. The curved line took up nearly half her forearm, the ink black as night. As soon as the witch dropped her arm, Wren scuttled backward, pawing at the ink. It did not smudge.
“You are now a citizen of Within,” the woman said. “There is no place for you in the world beyond the trees.” She nodded curtly. “Here is your hunting license.” She sent a scroll of parchment hurtling through the air. Wren caught it shakily and tucked it into her pocket. “Dismissed.”
There was a flurry of movement, the creaking of bones as the Six removed themselves from the platform, filing out of the great hall with light footsteps. The crowd of witches who had gathered in the back of the hall dispersed slower, their eyes lingering on Wren and her new mark.
“Welcome to the fold.” Leya’s melodic voice sounded like a funeral dirge.
“Thanks. For everything,” Wren said sarcastically, clapping a hand over her tattoo. The skin was still hot where the ink had been seared into her skin.
“The pain won’t last.” Leya pulled back her own sleeve to display the same symbol. The black of the ink had faded. It looked less severe, softer somehow, all curved lines and round shapes. “It will grow to be a part of you. Each circle is for an element: water, wind, fire, earth.” She tapped each circle in time. “To remind us of the source of it all.”
Wren snorted despite herself.
“Oh, good. You have a sense of humor.” Leya glanced darkly toward the retreating backs of the Six.
Wren’s legs had grown tired of supporting her. She sank to the floor, the marble frigid against her skin even through her worn trousers. She couldn’t be bothered to care.
Leya sighed impatiently, but she slipped to the floor as well, and settled her long skirt around her.
“I’ve never met another source.” The words were out of Wren’s mouth before she could pull them back. She was furious with Leya, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t curious about her too.
“We’re very valuable.”
“I’m certain that’s what the Coven wants you to believe.”
Leya frowned so quickly Wren wondered if she had imagined it. “The Coven wants you to believe a lot of things, but this is, in fact, true. There are hundreds of witches, but only a handful of sources. That’s why they did all that intimidating whispering earlier. Your magic is worth a lot to them.”
“They didn’t seem to care very much about me.” Wren fussed with the lace on her boot.
Leya raised her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into her hair. “That’s because they’re afraid of you. When witches cast a spell, it drains them physically and mentally. There’s a limit to their power. But with a source, they can push those boundaries, take steps far beyond the scope of their limitations. Witches can do magic, but we are magic.”
It was still strange to hear someone else refer to her as such. “There has never been a bit of magic in my family. Not even so much as an exceptionally talented gardener.”
“No kidding,” Leya purred, her vowels round and long. “There’s… a lot going on up there.” She waved her hand vaguely near Wren’s ear. “It’s really rather loud.”
Wren frowned. She was always so preoccupied with the magic around her that she’d never stopped to consider what her m
agic was like.
“For years I tried to suppress it. Evangeline’s sickness killed my brother, and so my father hates magic. I didn’t want him to be afraid of me.”
Leya made a soft clicking sound with her tongue. “I can tell. Your power moves in such a stilted way. It’s like you’re fighting too hard against what you are.” Her eyes focused intently on the space above Wren’s head. “You should give in to it. You’ll be much more powerful than you already are.” She gave Wren a significant look.
“Power is overrated.”
“Power is everything.” Leya’s smile did not meet her eyes. “Especially to Tamsin.”
“Power might be everything to Tamsin, but the truth certainly isn’t. She didn’t even tell me she was banished.” Wren attacked the word the way she wished she could attack her travel companion.
Leya chuckled. “Not particularly forthcoming, is she? Some things never change.”
Wren tugged on her braid, trying to fight the unease settling in her stomach. Leya and Tamsin had history. It made sense. The two of them were roughly the same age. They had both grown up in the Witchlands. They had probably studied together.
“You know her, then?” Wren tried to sound nonchalant, despite her sudden, desperate need to know every single thing about the witch.
“You could say that.” Leya laughed darkly. “She was my best friend.”
“ ‘Was’?” Wren latched on to the past tense.
“I loved her.” Leya shrugged. “I thought she felt the same, but all she cared about was power. When I wouldn’t share mine with her, well… Can’t trust a witch, am I right?” Something frenetic glinted behind Leya’s eyes.
Wren tried and failed to fight the memory of their reunion. The vitriol in Leya’s voice. The resignation in Tamsin’s. There was something between them. Something even a five-year absence could not heal. “Anyway, it didn’t matter.” Leya’s voice was flat. “In the end it all came down to Marlena.”
Something caught in Wren’s chest, a slow sinking of hope she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. The idea that there had been someone in Tamsin’s life more enthralling than Leya, the beautiful girl sitting before her, was intimidating.
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