Key to the Journey (The Chronicles of Hawthorn, Book 2)

by Rue

  “I’ll be careful. I know how to hide,” replied Flynn.

  “Do you know how to leave?” The sparkling ice eyes locked onto Flynn.

  “I think—one time—No,” she finally said.

  Windemere looked at Kahu and shook her head. “The risk may be too great. If she enters into a trap we may not have time to pull her back. We should consult Cabot.”

  “Impossible. He would never support this plan. You saw how he reacted last night in the marae.” Kahu clenched her jaw and chewed her lip.

  “Do you mean because he instructed us to protect the heir, instead of you?” asked Windemere.

  “I’m still the High Priestess…” Kahu looked at Flynn and couldn’t finish her sentence.

  Windemere moved to place her hand on Kahu’s shoulder, but Pounamu waved her back.

  “He cannot let his love for you cloud his judgment, my darling. You know in your heart he made the best choice for Aotearoa.” Pounamu smiled gently.

  “It’s only because he knows I can’t protect myself, Mother. He would never let anything happen to you,” added Flynn.

  “Enough. I’m acting like a maiden after her first Spring Rite. We have much more important things to discuss.” Kahu squeezed Flynn’s hand, “Last time you went directly to Magdelana. How did you know?”

  “The place called to me,” replied Flynn, hesitantly.

  Pounamu leaned forward and studied the map on the table. “You can read these marks, my darling?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  “Tell me the names and we will see if I can’t find a way. I am old enough to know more than most about the Shadow Coven of Southeil, and their lands.” Pounamu’s chair creaked as she leaned forward and watched Flynn point to marks on the map and call out their names.

  “Ah, Rapoka Cay, there are some powerful greenstones on that little tuft of land. Go on, my darling.” Pounamu nodded toward Flynn.

  “Last time I found her in the Caves of Matamoe, here,” Flynn pointed to a symbol on the map.

  “Hmmm, and what does this say?” Pounamu pointed to a similar shape north of the caves.

  “That one’s not labeled, but the symbol is the same as the other.” Flynn stared at the markings for a moment. “I think these dashes might mean something underground. Look,” she pointed to the lines running between the two symbols, “it’s called Labyrinth of Puratoke.”

  “Perhaps if you enter here,” Pounamu pointed to the unmarked cave, “and come down the tunnel like a sneaky witara, you can see without being seen?”

  “We’ll wait four hundred heart beats and then Kahu will pull you back. Do not resist her, Flynn. If we lose you on this side, I cannot travel to you. This,” she pointed to the map, “this is beyond even me.” Windemere’s young face looked grave with worry.

  Flynn took a deep breath and stared at the map. She reached her fingers toward the unmarked cave and closed her eyes.

  Darkness hit her in a wave of black silence. Dampness pressed in around her. As Flynn’s eyes adjusted she could see pulsing blue lights above. She must be in a glow-worm cave, an uncharted part of the Labyrinth of Puratoke.

  This silence reminded her of walking out after a fresh snowfall. Her own breath sounded out of place in the stillness. Four hundred heartbeats, and she had forgotten to start counting. She could make out the dim path in the eerie blueness and she walked as quickly as she could toward Matamoe.

  The path turned and a stone bridge crossed over an underground stream. The quivering light reflected from the swirling surface. The coolness sank into her flesh and the hairs on her arms poked upward. Something felt different about this traveling, but she didn’t have time for puzzles.

  A murmur reached her ears and grew louder with each step. The rhythm of the sound became a chant and in her heart Flynn knew the chant had to be a karakia directed by Magdelana.

  She crept to the edge of the large opening at the end of the glow-worm tunnel.

  Magdelana stood on a stone platform surrounded by the Shadow Coven of Southeil. Their chanting reached a fever pitch.

  Flynn strained to make out individual words in the karakia. She inched along the cave wall, slowly creeping closer. At last she could make out two words “pokekohu,” mist, and “rewa,” melt.

  Magdelana raised her left hand above an altar laid with twisted herbs and burned bones. Her athamé plunged into her finger and drops of blood plopped onto the bones with a sickening splat.

  Flynn did not realize her gasp had been heard.

  Magdelana waved the coven to silence and her eyes flashed over the cave.

  Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. Flynn had crept too far from the tunnel. She had left herself completely exposed.

  Magdelana bounded across the cave in three supernatural strides. “I see your treachery, heir. And my revenge will be your last memory.”

  The voice sent blades of ice down Flynn’s spine.

  Magdelana raised her bloody athamé.

  Flynn screamed.

  The blade came down.

  Four hundred heartbeats had passed back at the cottage in Moa Bend.

  Kahu stood and pulled Flynn to her chest—willing her back.

  Magdelana’s blade gouged the cave wall. Her scream shattered the stone altar.

  The echo of that scream followed Flynn back through the astral plane.

  Pounamu rose to her feet. “Get the angelica, sage, and water blessed on the last night of the full moon.”

  “It’s all right, Auntie. She’s back. My sweet child is back safe,” said Kahu, as she hugged Flynn close.

  “Not entirely safe, my darling. One cannot be physically injured on the astral plane, yet she bleeds.” Pounamu pointed to the blood dripping down Flynn’s forearm and pooling on the floorboards.

  Kahu gasped, pushed Flynn into a chair, and ran to her herb cupboard. She returned quickly and laid the items on the table. “Why these herbs, Pounamu? What is your worry?”

  Windemere stepped forward and placed a hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “I fear she may have bi-located, that is the only possible explanation for the physical injury, Kahu.” She squeezed Flynn’s shoulder supportively and asked, “This cut is deep, from a blade, not a mere scrape on a rock. What happened in the cave, Flynn?”

  Flynn haltingly told the story, her breath coming in ragged gasps and her whole body quivering.

  Pounamu did not need to hear the story; in her heart she knew the treachery of the Shadow Coven. She took the herbs and carefully prepared the ingredients for a salve she hoped could heal the wound. “At least you interrupted their karakia, my darling. But the shadow witch is a fool if she thinks blood magick will affect the Mist.”

  Kahu grabbed a piece of cloth and moved to bind Flynn’s wound.

  “Stop,” commanded Pounamu.

  “We must stop the bleeding,” argued Kahu.

  “You heard the story, as I did. The knife that pierced Flynn’s flesh had already been tainted with Magdelana’s own blood. Shadow magick courses through that witch’s veins stronger than her own lifeblood. It feeds her with power while it drains away her very soul.”

  Windemere and Kahu stared at the witch of the wood.

  “That blood, Magdelana’s blood, touched Flynn. We must do everything within our collective power to cleanse that taint from her. Let the wound bleed, Kahu. It is better that she feel a bit faint, than be slowly poisoned by the shadow witch.”

  Silence hung in the room like thick smoke.

  Kahu stared at Flynn and did not blink. Her gaze saw something beyond.

  Flynn felt hot tears spill down her cheeks.

  Windemere nodded gravely and turned to Pounamu, “What can I do, my Elder?”

  “Cast a circle, call the Elements to our service, and,” she tipped her head to Kahu, “be ready with that moon water. As soon as the circle is cast, rinse that wound until I tell you to stop, and no one touch that pool of blood. Understood?”

  “So it will be,” replied Windemere and Kahu, in unison.
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  Flynn could feel the walls of the room closing in around her. Once the circle had been cast she could see shimmering light surrounding all of them and she smiled like she’d gone faery foolish.

  Kahu took the bottle of moon water, blessed by the Mother Goddess on the last day of the full moon, and poured it into the gash on Flynn’s arm.

  Both Mother and daughter drew a sharp breath.

  Flynn, because of the burning sting of the water cascading over her injured arm.

  Kahu, because she saw the gash had cut straight through the Spirit Hapu tattoo. “Pounamu, look,” she said.

  “Ah, we may have found a bit of luck in that. The Spirit mark is a powerful sigil, but I fear the resulting scar may sour the mark—somehow.” Pounamu waved her hand over the herbs and chanted, “Parakore, parakore, parakore…”

  Windemere and Kahu took up the chant.

  The air over the herbs crackled and a thin stream of smoke rose from the mixture.

  “Stop, and hand me the water, now, Kahu.” Pounamu held out her hand.

  Kahu passed the sacred moon water.

  The crackling herbs hissed as Pounamu poured three drops onto the poultice and held both of her hands over the mixture on the table. She closed her eyes and in a deeply powerful voice that couldn’t belong to a 300-year-old woman, she boomed, “Parakore!”

  The purifying mixture swirled and floated toward Flynn’s arm.

  The High Priestess held her daughter’s arm still and the herbal concoction burrowed into the wound.

  “Now you may bind it, my darling,” Pounamu said in her regular warm, smoky tone. “You may release the Elements and open the circle, Windemere. The rest is up to our little Flynn.”

  “Is it all right, Auntie? Did you get Magdelana’s blood out of me?” asked Flynn, in a worried whisper.

  “Of course, my darling. Tomorrow I will guide you through the visualization you will use to seek out any lingering bits of the shadow’s stain,” replied Pounamu.

  No one asked her to elaborate. The cleansing had taken a great deal of energy from the three powerful witches and Flynn’s life force had waned with the blood loss.

  Kahu helped her daughter to bed, latched her shutters, and placed a magickal ward on the window.

  After a full moon’s cycle in the wilderness, Flynn couldn’t imagine a more enticing aroma than that of her grandmother’s mango stuffed sweet rolls.

  She climbed out of bed, careful to keep her injured arm from too much jostling, and stopped when she heard Oturu’s call. She opened her shutters and jumped back when the falcon flew into her room. “Did you escape from your mew at the moa nursery?” she asked.

  Oturu flew back out the window and shared her view with Flynn. There outside the window, someone had built a perfect home for Oturu. Wooden slats lined the sunny side of the mew to keep the direct sunlight from overheating the space and perches of several varied heights were anchored into the earth. The builder had even enclosed a branch of the adjacent tree under the thatch roof, so Oturu could fly into an actual tree—should the mood strike.

  “Who could’ve—?”

  Oturu shared an image of a grinning Po releasing her into the mew and sneaking away in the early morning light.

  “I’m beginning to genuinely love that silly carver,” chuckled Flynn. “It looks like you have everything you need, so I think I’ll go and get my breakfast.”

  Before Flynn could take two steps, Oturu sent her an image of a sweet roll.

  “Anything for you, my darling,” she chuckled at her own impression of Pounamu’s gentle smoky voice, and ran off to the kitchen.

  “They smell more delicious than I remember, Nana,” Flynn sighed.

  Nana Kapowai smiled and crossed the room to hug her granddaughter. “I hear you had a bit of a rough go of it last night.” She turned before Flynn could see the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” lied Flynn. “I have to learn my limits. I guess that’s why the Grand Coven decided to keep me in the levels with Hazel.”

  “Stroke of genius—that Seeking,” chuckled Kapowai. “My mother always told me to watch out for the cunning witch of the wood.”

  “She only wants what’s best for me, Nana.” Flynn felt protective of Pounamu, although after the ordeal in Dreamwood Forest and the emergency purification ritual last night—she had to admit the witch of the wood hardly needed protection.

  “Well, she didn’t want what was best for your mother’s floorboards.” Nana pointed to the charred circle of wood near the kitchen table.

  Flynn nodded and stepped closer to the blackened brand, a mark that would serve to remind her of how close Magdelana had come to achieving her goal, and the good fortune that Pounamu had known how to stop the effects of the poisonous blood. “Why does the wood look so smooth, Nana?”

  “A whakanoa, cleansing fire, can change the very structure of something. Pounamu’s Fire magick is powerful. Your mother said the blood evaporated and the wood seemed to turn to liquid,” replied Nana Kapowai.

  Flynn slowly bent down and stretched her hand toward the strange stain.

  The front door of the cottage burst open. “Flynn!”

  “Hazel!” Flynn jumped up, ran to her friend, and gave her a huge one-armed hug.

  “Po overheard his mother talking to Windemere and he came straight to my cabin to tell me what happened. Are you all right? Did you actually go to Southeil or did you have a dream, I mean I don’t see how you could get stabbed in a dream, but—”

  “Breathe, Hazel,” Flynn managed before laughter cut off her speech.

  “What?” Hazel pinched her lips and furrowed her brow.

  “You’re doing it again, the talking without breathing.” Flynn chuckled and continued, “I mean, there are no gaps. How am I supposed to answer?”

  “Oh, that.” Hazel shrugged, grabbed Flynn’s uninjured hand, and pulled her to the table. “Tell me everything,” she said as she placed two warm sweet rolls on a plate.

  Flynn shared the highlights, glossed over the dangerous details, and showed Hazel her bandaged arm. “I’m not supposed to take this off until the night of the dark moon, before the new moon. Pounamu will tell me.”

  “Does it hurt?” asked Hazel.

  “A little,” fibbed Flynn. The poultice created a burning tingle that barely masked the ache deep in her bone. She trusted in Pounamu’s cure and she didn’t want to worry anyone with her whining about a little cut. Perhaps she should mention the dream she had last night about Magdelana and The Book of Shadow, but it was almost certainly a simple flashback to the terrifying ordeal of her unintended bi-location. No point in getting everyone worried about nothing.

  “Can I see what’s in the trunk?” asked Hazel.

  “Sure,” replied Flynn.

  “Thank you for the rolls, Nana Kapowai,” Hazel said as she wiped honey from her chin.

  “Yes, thank you, Nana,” added Flynn. She motioned for Hazel to follow her to her room and slipped the key from around her neck to open the trunk.

  Hazel marveled at the contents and begged Flynn to teach her the meanings of the markings.

  “All right, tomorrow after I get some rest and my arm feels better,” replied Flynn.

  Hazel picked up the pouches and ran the gold discs through her fingers. She held up the two leather items, “What are these?”

  “My mother said they’re bracers.” Flynn held out a hand, “Here, pass one over.” She took the item and slipped it on her uninjured arm. “People wear them over their loose shirtsleeves to keep them from getting caught in a bowstring, so maybe my father did some hunting,” she explained.

  Hazel nodded briefly and burst into a fit of laughter.

  “What?” asked Flynn.

  “It’s not funny. I shouldn’t be laughing. But, if you’d have worn them instead of keeping them in the trunk—maybe you wouldn’t have gotten cut,” said Hazel.

  Flynn didn’t laugh, but she did look at how the thick leat
her protected her forearm and wondered if Dunedin had somehow known the danger that lurked in Southeil when he had led her to the trunk.

  “See, it’s not funny,” repeated Hazel. “I laugh when I’m nervous or scared, and this whole bi-locating thing definitely scares me, you know?” She shrugged her shoulders and dug back into the trunk.

  Flynn lay on her bed and watched her friend, all the while pretending she didn’t feel the pull of something dark and deadly calling her back to Southeil.

  The seasons are changing in Moa Bend and everyone is preparing for the Autumn Balance ritual, but Flynn Hawthorn feels anything but balanced. The more she learns about her magick, the more she craves the power.

  Dark thoughts plague her visualizations and an insidious power creeps through her veins. She is stricken with debilitating headaches and finds herself seeking the comfort of solitude, and avoiding contact with family and friends—even Hazel.

  When news of a faery genocide in Southeil reaches Flynn, she jumps at the chance to sneak into the realm of Magdelana, the Shadow Witch, and retrieve a powerful magickal item from the debris.

  Flynn wants to believe her actions are her own, but somewhere in the darkness she knows The Shadow Calls.

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  Acknowledgments

  It’s Book 2, and I still LOVE my illustrator! The gorgeous cover illustration and each of the unique chapter icons are precious gifts from Angelina Elise. Angel, thank you for bringing the pictures in my head to life!

  Thank you (once again) to my fabulous editor Jazmine Hale! Writing is rewriting, and luckily Jazmine keeps me on track.

  Tattered Page Ink did a fantastic job with ebook formatting on An Average Curse—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Thanks for working through the process with me, and producing such great looking books, Kriston.

  This is my first series with a map—now maps—and I have a love/hate relationship with mapping. My deepest gratitude to Lord Gilbert and his superb cartography.