Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

  Unbidden, a troubling memory surfaces from a few days ago, when I found Mother Eliss leaning against the wooden counter in the kitchen, sobbing, a small painting of her dead parents held loosely in her hand.

  I’d frozen, my heart twisting with sympathy. “Can...can I help you, Mother Eliss?”

  She’d given a brusque shake of her head, misery coating her in palpable waves.

  Desperate to soothe her, I’d quietly poured her a cup of tea and fetched her favorite shawl, gently laying it around her thin, surprisingly fragile shoulders.

  She’d reached out to gently squeeze my arm. “You’re a comfort to me, girl.” Her voice was stuffy, her eyes fixed hard on the counter. A single tear fell from her eye and splattered down onto the wood in a bulbous star.

  “They’re evil,” she’d told me. “The Kelts. The Icarals. And those Urisk, too. Pure evil. Every last one of them. They killed my whole family. No one was spared, not even the children.” She’d looked up and leveled her suddenly blazing eyes at me. “Never forget that, Sage. Never. Promise me.”

  Unease had spiked through me at her tone, but I’d nodded, hoping to please her. “I promise,” I agreed, intimidated by the fierce grief swimming in her eyes.

  “Another Black Witch is coming,” she said, her grip on me tightening. “All the Seers have foretold it. The Reaping Times are coming, Sagellyn. And the Evil Ones will be rendered to ash and rent asunder.”

  I inwardly drew back from her, pulling my affinity lines protectively in. Scared of this talk of Evil Ones and the shadow times coming for us all.

  Mother Eliss grew suddenly quiet, a jagged misery tightening her face as she released my arm, her hand coming to her eyes as she began to silently weep once more.

  * * *

  I hug my sisters tighter, chilled by the memory of Mother Eliss’s implacable grief.

  “It’s looking for you, Sage.” Clover’s voice is tiny and worried as she clings to her blanket. Retta’s huddled against my other side, fallen peacefully asleep while I’ve been lost in my own thoughts.

  “What’s looking for me?” I ask curiously. The wind rattles the windowpanes.

  “The tree,” she says in a small, sure voice. “I had a dream about it. It’s calling your name. It sounds like the wind. Sage. Sage. Saaage.”

  An uneasy chill pricks the back of my neck. “That’s silly.”

  “It was a dream, but not a dream,” she says in a singsong voice. “It likes you, Sage. Lemme show you.”

  Clover reaches over to the shelf that abuts the bed and picks up a framed painting I made for her—an illustration of our sacred Source Tree, wreathed in starlight and surrounded by a grove of dark brown Ironwood trees, each graced with deep green leaves and lush blue Ironflowers. Gardnerian children are dancing in a ring around the Source Tree, butterflies and birds flitting about, wildflowers strewn at their feet.

  “This tree,” she says, pointing to our Source Tree. “It wants to give you a branch. The White Wand.”

  Ah. She’s being fanciful.

  “It talked to you in your dream? The Tree did?” I’m half humoring her, half wondering if her musings about the Ancient One’s Wand of Power would be considered sacrilegious by Mother Eliss.

  “Not with its mouth,” Clover insists, frowning. “Trees don’t have mouths.” She pats her chest. “In my heart. It’s nice, Sage. It said you don’t have to be afraid.”

  It’s an odd thing for her to say and stops me up short, dampening my smile. I brush away a tinge of unease and arrange my face into a teasing expression. “Now why in the world would it want to give me the Wand?” I ask, playing along. Clover likes to spin tales.

  “So the demons don’t get it.”

  Surprise stabs through me. “The...what? Where would you get such ideas?” Lightning flashes.

  “From my dream,” she says, as if this should be obvious.

  “Well, it was just a dream,” I reassure her, fighting off a sudden chill.

  “I’m scared of the demons.” Clover pulls herself into a ball, her eyes darting furtively around as she tugs her blanket up over her nose. “They’ve got big shadow horns! And glowing eyes! And they’re made of fire!”

  “You don’t need to be scared of anything,” I stolidly insist. “It was just a bad dream.”

  Branches scrape across the window’s glass, like claws. Like something trying to get in.

  “No,” Clover says urgently, eyes wide, her words slightly muffled by her blanket. “They’re real. They’re coming. They’re coming for you. They want it.”

  “Clove, stop it.”

  “They want the White Wand,” she presses, ignoring me. “They have the Shadow One already, but they want that one, too. You can’t let them have it, Sage!”

  “Stop. Really,” I say, my heart picking up speed. I’m suddenly acutely aware of the cold darkness just beyond the walls. I focus on the window and pull the affinity lines around my eyes in tight so I can see outside. The darkness instantly brightens, as if illuminated by red torchlight, the trees outside the window gleaming in the varying shades of scarlet that my light magery allows me to see. I scan the red-lit scene anxiously.

  Nothing. No demons. No monsters waiting. Just the wind-buffeted tree and the stormy night.

  You’re being ridiculous, I comfort myself, relaxing my affinity lines, the scarlet fading as my vision returns to normal. There’s nothing to fear. She simply had a nightmare.

  “Stop playing and go to sleep,” I gently scold Clover, tucking the blankets tight around her skinny frame. “What do we do when we get scared?”

  She answers me through a mouthful of blanket. “The Ancient One’s Prayer of Protection.”

  “That’s right.”

  Prompting her, we say the prayer together.

  Oh, Blessed Ancient One. Purify our minds. Purify our hearts. Purify Erthia from the stain of the Evil Ones.

  I make the Ancient One’s star sign over her heart. “There,” I emphatically state. “Protected.”

  Some of the fear in her eyes softens. Snuggling back in with her, I shake off my own edge of apprehension and stroke Clover’s messy hair, drawing comfort from being close to my sisters. My own room is next door, but we often gravitate toward being with each other, especially on stormy nights like this.

  And we’ll always be together, I remind myself, a glimmer of relief passing through me as I remember Father’s plans for all three of us. And maybe Tobias Vasillis will be as nice as Rafe and have his same lovely, emerald eyes. Perhaps he’ll carve me a small bird, like Rafe once did, and tell me funny stories.

  The storm rages and the darkness presses in around us, but I focus on these bolstering thoughts as the little white birds bob overhead, gently lulling me to sleep.

  Chapter 2: Valgard

  I’m breathless with equal parts anticipation and trepidation as I press my cheek to the sun-warmed glass of the carriage window. Mother Eliss and Father are seated across from me, wrapped up in low conversation.

  Three weeks have passed since I was told I’m to be fasted, and I’m having a hard time keeping acceptably still. My legs fidget with nervous excitement beneath my heavy black skirt as our carriage draws ever closer to Valgard, Gardneria’s glittering capital city.

  For my wandfasting.

  We crest a hill and Malthorin Bay comes into view, splayed out before us and shimmering with sunlight. I gasp as an impossible variety of blues cascade toward me in a glorious barrage—everything from cool, glacial tones to vibrant turquoise to midnight-blue.

  Deliriously overcome, I reflexively breathe in deep and pull the color in. Swirls of blue that only I can see spiral toward me and straight into my affinity lines. I’ve a sense, in the back of my mind, of being suffused with a glorious rush of sapphire energy that sings through my lines of magic.

  My wand hand starts to tingle,
wrenching me from my color daze. I glance down and see that my fingertips are glimmering blue. Not an acceptable Ironflower blue, but a bright, decadent turquoise.

  Panic spears through me, and I force my gaze away from the bay, my heart now racing as I quickly pull my hand out of my parents’ sight. I surreptitiously peek again, alarmed to see the iridescent blue has spread halfway down my fingers. I swallow hard, sweat breaking out on my forehead as I pull my hand further into my sleeve and anxiously glance at Father and Mother Eliss.

  Father catches my eye and studies me with a questioning tilt of his head, then gives me a small, encouraging smile. “There’s no need to be nervous today,” he tells me. “You’ve earned this fasting. We’re quite proud of you, Sagellyn.”

  Mother Eliss echoes Father’s approval with a pleased nod. “You deserve this, Sage. To be fasted to a powerful, accomplished young Mage, and from such a good family. I’m so glad for you, child.”

  “Thank you, Mother Eliss. Thank you, Father,” I say, clenching and unclenching my wand hand, desperate to loosen the forbidden color’s grip and keep hold of their warm, always longed-for approval.

  Father and Mother Eliss nod at me, then smile at each other, and my heart fills with gladness and belonging.

  I secretly check my fingers, my hand curled to keep my fingertips from their view. My fingers have faded back to their normal, faintly verdant sheen. I breathe in a long sigh of relief and vow to do better. To be the best Mage—and daughter—I can possibly be.

  * * *

  The city’s cacophony of colors and new sights are intoxicating, and I allow myself to fall into the overabundance of our holy colors. The design of every banner, every stained-glass window, every stone-patterned plaza is colored only in blessed blacks, deep greens, reds and blues—and the blessed hue of blue is only used to depict the sacred Ironflower.

  Everything is so perfect and safe and beautiful.

  Scarlet glass lanterns hang in rows in front of a furniture shop and flash their opulent ruby lights. Flowering emerald vines spill from rooftop gardens. A florist’s stand sells bouquets of crimson roses. I tighten the affinity lines around my eyes and pull the image of one bloom so close, it’s as if I could take the rose in my hand.

  As the carriage pulls forward slightly, the scene shifts, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with a close-up view of a surprising image.

  A young Snake Elf.

  His ears come to swift points, and his silver eyes are set in a face covered with deep green, reptilian scales. The scales’ interlocking pattern of small hexagons, intricately rendered in black ink, instantly captures my affinity and takes my breath away.

  Beautiful...

  “Warren,” Mother Eliss says to Father, sounding rattled. “There’s a Snake Elf loose in the city.”

  Her sharp voice shocks me back to my senses. I loosen my eye-lines and force the image of the Snake Elf away, his visage contracting as it flies backward to where it hangs, tacked onto the support beam of a tidy fruit stand.

  A wanted posting for a fugitive Snake Elf named Ra’Ven Za’Nor.

  Stupid, stupid. I mentally castigate myself. You cannot be drawn in by the pattern of Snake Elf skin, of all things.

  Mother Eliss has taught us about these reptilian Elves—dangerous criminals that the Alfsigr Elves keep imprisoned underground.

  Father regards Mother Eliss somberly. “He’s an escaped prisoner of the Alfsigr. Part of the Snake Elves’ mockery of a royal family.” He gives her a look of reassuring gravity. “Don’t worry, Eliss. His days are numbered. They’ve got the Mage Guard out looking for him.”

  We lurch ahead and the disconcerting poster is swept from sight, but my eyes dart around nervously now. I tighten the lines around my eyes and light up the shadows of dark alleys and alcoves in my vision, searching for the hidden Snake Elf. But there’s nothing troubling to be seen anywhere.

  We amble past a toy-crafter’s shop, stocked with wooden canisters of play White Wands. Figurines of winged Icaral demons hang from the store’s awning on strings. A little boy is trying to thwack a demon with one of the ivory wands.

  Wands. Even though they’re only toys, my light affinity insistently strains toward them.

  Two young woman stride into view, laughing merrily, their arms linked. My eyes widen as my attention is wrenched from the wands. The first young woman’s black garb is shockingly decorated with golden, looping embroidery, but the second young woman’s garb is even more outrageous—her black tunic and long skirt are edged with glittering purple gems.

  Purple!

  My affinity hungrily lurches for the purple. Instantly overcome, I ignore every holy order and drink in the sight, the color washing over me, sweeping over the entire scene in a glorious violet filter.

  How can she be wearing purple? I marvel, luxuriating in the exquisite hue. She’s Gardnerian.

  “Look at this display!” Mother Eliss spits out with piercing derision. Her words are a hammer, cracking down on my unholy rapture. “They’ve forgotten what our garb represents.”

  I reluctantly avert my eyes, a sullen frustration stinging along my lines as I fight the sudden, intense longing to own resplendent garb edged in glittering purple. Everything in me orients itself to this gravely forbidden Fae color. My affinity lines sometimes crackle a disconcerting purple just beneath my skin, even when the color isn’t present around me. Mother Eliss has consulted our priest about this many times, deeply concerned for my Mage purity.

  Father briefly eyes the women. “This is what comes of late fasting. Letting their daughters run rampant.” He scowls and turns away with a disgusted breath. “One step up from an Issani whore.”

  I stiffen at the word as I tense my hidden wand hand. It’s an important thing, I know, not to be a whore—a filthy, amorphous idea that I don’t completely understand. But I do know I’m to be safe from it as soon as I’m fasted. Still, the idea of wearing a dress decorated with purple fills me with a yearning that’s almost impossible to suppress.

  Our carriage soon turns right and a huge plaza opens up before us, the mammoth Valgard Cathedral coming into view. I’m soon glued to the window again, mesmerized by the plaza’s intricate mosaic floor of black and green stone. In its center rises a huge statue of our last Black Witch, Carnissa Gardner, chiseled in white granite, her wand pointed down at an Icaral demon lying dead beneath her feet.

  I stare, transfixed. Her face. It’s the absolute image of my neighbor, Elloren Gardner, the Black Witch’s own granddaughter. Even though Elloren’s only eleven, the severe lines of her face already match those of her powerful grandmother.

  Our carriage comes to a smooth stop in front of the towering cathedral. Sweeping columns made of huge Ironwood tree trunks rise into the sky. The entwining branches hold a silver Erthia orb at their zenith, like a gargantuan forest leaning in to cup the world. A jittery apprehension rises within me as I gaze at the ornately carved doors.

  Tobias Vasillis is somewhere inside. My soon-to-be fastmate.

  I disembark from the carriage, filled with a quivering sense of anticipation, and follow Father and Mother Eliss up the cathedral’s stairs, careful to hide my purple-tinged hand.

  * * *

  There’s a line of Gardnerian maidens seated in the pews at the front of the cathedral. A few of them turn around to look at us as Father, Mother Eliss and I make our way up the long central aisle. Large Ironwood trees are embedded throughout the walls and support the enormous ceiling, the trees’ dark branches tangling overhead. It’s like I’m inside a dark, majestic forest.

  A gasp escapes me as I take in the sight of the stained-glass windows. Each one depicts a different scene from The Book of the Ancients, and I slow down, momentarily forgetting my nervousness, distracted by the stunning artistry. Though the images are rendered only in our sacred colors, rays of sunlight stream through the glass and criss-cross to create a k
aleidoscope of other shades all over the cathedral, a blend of forbidden golds, oranges...and purples.

  Purple. Oh, the purple.

  The glowing, vivid beauty of it is almost too much to bear as my view of the entire cathedral interior is suffused with a violet hue.

  Don’t look, I caution myself, at war with my affinity. It’s the wilds trying to pollute this sacred space. Trying to pollute you.

  Mother Eliss gives me a gentle tug, cutting into the color’s decadent spell. Heart hammering and the purple rapidly fading from my vision, I tense my wand hand and hasten my pace to escape the seductive Fae colors and keep up with my stepmother’s fast clip.

  There’s a crowd of adults gathered to the right of the dais at the head of the cathedral, their conversations low and murmuring, their expressions solemn. Some of the adults turn as we approach, and several men break away from the crowd to greet Father, to shake his hand.

  All of the Gardnerians here are plainly dressed like us—all black, with no ornamentation save the silver Erthia orb pendants round our necks and the silver Mage Level stripes on some of the men’s tunics, as well as the occasional Mage Council seal pin. Every family here is part of the strict, Styvian sect of our faith, adhering with pure, unflinching submission to every rule in The Book of the Ancients.

  The only true Gardnerians. The only true First Children, Mother Eliss likes to say.

  We’re met by a thin priest with a remote expression, the Ancient One’s white bird embroidered on the front of his dark, priestly garments. He directs my parents to the pews on the right of the central aisle, where the other adults are taking their seats. Then he ushers me toward the young Gardnerian maidens sitting in neat rows to the aisle’s left.

  A heady excitement bubbles up inside me. I’ve never been around so many other girls my own age, and from my own sect—all of us strictly obedient and able to mingle without censure. I eagerly search the rows, wondering which girl is Gwynnifer Croft. Our fathers are both on the Mage Council, and I’m to stay with Gwynnifer’s family for the duration of our visit while my parents lodge with my fastmate’s family.