Well of Witches

by J. A. White

  At which point she was spit out of the tunnel and sent tumbling across the ground. Kara ran her hands over her face, fearing that her fingers would meet only gruesome smoothness but feeling instead the familiar curves of eyes, nose, and mouth. She clutched her neck and was overjoyed to find it bereft of the knobby pieces of flesh that would grow into mask-arms.

  I haven’t changed. I’m still me.

  Kara placed her hands on the ground, intending to push herself to her feet, and felt something strange beneath her palms.

  It can’t be!

  Grass, lush and green, tickled her fingertips. Kara was not outside, however, but in a large room with a door set into the opposite wall. In the center of the room grew a beautiful tree dappled with orange and yellow leaves. Kara felt sunlight on her face. Looking up, she was surprised to find that the room had no ceiling—or no roof, for that matter. The walls simply opened up to a glorious blue expanse with fluffy clouds.

  “Impossible,” Kara said.

  “I’m surprised, Kara Westfall,” replied a man sitting against the opposite side of the tree. “After everything you’ve been through, I was certain you would have stricken that deceitful word from your vocabulary by now.”

  Kara crossed the room until she was able to see him: a small man wearing a green robe with a dark birthmark that covered nearly half his face. He looked a little older than his portrait in Sablethorn, but not by much.

  “Minoth Dravania,” Kara said.

  “Indeed,” he replied. Minoth spoke with a strange accent Kara had never heard before, his voice as raspy as burlap. “How nice to hear my name spoken aloud after all this time. I was starting to wonder if I remembered it true.”

  “How are you . . .”

  “. . . still alive? Nothing special. Hardly even magic, really. I just forced my remaining years into this one specific spot instead of letting them spread willy-nilly all over the world. People would be surprised how far a few good years could last them if they weren’t so wasteful! Unfortunately, that means I cannot leave the shade of this tree without immediately perishing. A fair trade, I think. It’s a rather nice tree.”

  Minoth gave her the faintest trace of a smile. Kara thought he might be having fun with her, but she wasn’t certain.

  “How is it possible to see the sky from here?” Kara asked. “Have I left the Well of Witches?”

  “Unfortunately not. This place is all I could save of the original Phadeen. The eye of the storm, if you will.” He traced his fingertips along the bark of the tree. “You should have seen it in its prime, Kara. My life’s work. Do you know what happened?”

  Minoth watched her expectantly, and Kara straightened like a schoolgirl standing before the class.

  “Evangeline’s Last Spell,” she said.

  He tilted his hand from side to side, as though she had given a response that approached the answer without truly hitting the mark.

  “It was indeed the princess who cast the spell,” he allowed. “Still, I’ve always found it hard to believe that one little girl could have been responsible for transforming a magnificent place like Phadeen into the Well of Witches.” He folded his hands in his lap and fixed Kara with a knowing stare. “You might want to think on that at some point. But today we have a more immediate concern. You’ve made it a long way without magic, my dear, and not without your share of travails. I’m quite impressed.”

  Kara blushed at the unexpected praise.

  “Thank you,” she said with reflexive politeness, before considering the implications of his comment. “Wait . . . how do you know all this? How do you even know my name?”

  “In the tunnel, all that sticky stuff like blackberry jam? That was the mind of the queth’nondra learning everything it could about you.” Minoth twirled his thumbs together guiltily. “I confess I might have peeked a little. You’ve led an interesting life! Witch duels, tree monsters, shadow creatures . . . though it must have been a fearsomely hard thing to be Sundered like that.”

  Kara recognized the word from Sordyr’s letter but did not understand how it applied to her. Minoth, seeing the confusion on her face, added, “What Rygoth did. Sundered you. Took away your magic. Speaking of which, how’d you like to get it back?”

  For a few moments, Kara was too stunned to answer.

  “I didn’t think it was possible,” she said quietly.

  “It’s not. But that’s never stopped me before. So I’ll ask one more time: Would you like to be a witch again?”

  Kara wondered when she had given up the possibility of regaining her powers. At the banquet table with Rygoth, perhaps? Or was it even earlier than that, as long ago as the Wayfinder? It didn’t matter now. Long-suppressed hope surged through her body, bringing tears to her eyes.

  “Yes,” Kara said. “I would like that very much. Can you really do it?”

  “I wish it were that easy, Kara,” Minoth said, with genuine regret in his eyes. “But even I cannot restore a wexari’s magic.” He indicated the door behind her. “Only the final chamber of the queth’nondra can do that. The good news is you’ve already walked your Sundering. All that remains is to answer the riddle without a question.”

  Kara’s head spun.

  “I’m a little lost here,” she said. “I know that the Sundering is some kind of test—”

  “More than that, my dear. Much more. The Sundering was a rite of passage that could have lasted anywhere from a few months to several years. To start, a wexari’s powers were taken away—”

  “On purpose?” Kara asked, shocked.

  “It didn’t hurt,” Minoth said. “There was a potion. Or maybe an ointment. It’s been a long time and the details escape me. In either case, sundered wexari were sent out into the world, penniless and with only the clothes on their backs, to learn what life was like without magic. Some wandered. Some learned trades. Some—”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense! Sablethorn was a school for magic! How can you teach someone how to be a wexari if you take away their power?”

  “Sablethorn would have been a very poor school indeed if we focused only on how to use magic and spent no time on the when and why. In my day those with the gift were revered and admired from birth. They were exalted above all others. Imagine if you had been told your entire life that you were more important than other people. Something truly terrible might happen. You might start to believe it! You might begin thinking, ‘Why should I help any of these sheep around me?’ For those with true power, such thoughts are the first steps down a dark, dark path. That’s why it was crucial that students experience firsthand what it was like to be powerless, poor, downtrodden—to understand life from a different perspective. Nothing quells the dark temptations of power better than empathy. Do you understand?”

  Kara gave a slight nod.

  “It’s just—a world where people admired those who could use magic is hard for me to imagine,” she said.

  Minoth patted the ground and Kara sat beside him. He smelled of mothballs and butterscotch.

  “I saw how the people of your village treated you,” Minoth said, his lips clamped together with restrained anger. “An entire religion dedicated to the notion that magic was evil. I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous thing.”

  “But are they so wrong?” Kara asked. “I’ve seen what grimoires do. They change people. Make them do bad things.”

  Minoth’s face fell.

  “Oh, Kara,” he said. “You poor, poor child. Magic isn’t evil. It’s sick—and badly in need of healing.” He placed his dry fingertips against her forehead. “Let your mind whittle away at that for a time, and come back to it after it has taken shape. For now you need to understand the second purpose of the Sundering. Yes, wexari were meant to learn empathy and humility, but they were expected to meditate on their greatest fault as well. Everyone has one. Envy. Laziness. Greed. When they returned from the Sundering, students were required to enter the final chamber of the queth’nondra and prove that they understood this weaknes
s, for recognizing our faults is the first step toward correcting them. Only then would their magic be restored.”

  “But how can you prove such a thing?” Kara asked.

  Minoth smiled.

  “The riddle without a question,” he said. “It’s different for everyone. That’s why you must pass through the tunnel. The queth’nondra needs to learn everything about you in order to know what riddle to pose. If students gave the correct answer, their powers would return on the spot and they would graduate from Sablethorn as full-fledged wexari. If their answer was wrong, however . . .”

  “They lost their magic forever and donned the green veil,” Kara said, remembering the painting in the dining hall of Sablethorn. “Just because students failed to solve a riddle, you made them hide their faces in shame and become servants? That was beyond cruel.”

  Minoth’s face colored slightly.

  “When I became headmaster I did try to abolish that particular rule, but the oldest traditions are hardest to change. And I found, quite to my surprise, that many students were relieved to fail the queth’nondra trial. Being a wexari is a dangerous life, not for everyone.”

  “So instead you made them servants?” Kara asked, her voice rising. “They did nothing wrong. Why did they have to hide their faces behind—”

  Kara gasped.

  “That’s why the witches who enter this place are changed into Faceless. The queth’nondra is confused. It thinks anyone who steps through the tunnel is here to be tested, like back in the Sablethorn days, only these poor girls don’t know anything about that, so of course they fail. They don’t have a chance. Used to be they were only punished with a green veil, but now they’re punished with a different sort of mask, aren’t they?”

  Minoth shifted uncomfortably.

  “You are correct,” he said. “The queth’nondra was not totally immune to the corruptive influence of the Well. I warned the first witches who wandered in here that they should not enter the final chamber, but there’s no going back through the tunnel and no one ever heeds me anyway. When they failed the trial—as is inevitable for any who are not wexari—they should have simply been given green veils to cover their faces, but the queth’nondra, poisoned by darkness, grew confused and overzealous in its duties, and—”

  “—took away their faces instead,” Kara said.

  Minoth nodded. “You would have made a fine addition to Sablethorn. You have a quick mind.”

  “You should meet my brother.”

  Kara eyed the door set into the opposite wall. All of a sudden she wanted to get out of this room as quickly as possible.

  “How can I solve a riddle when I don’t know the question?”

  Minoth tsked.

  “But the riddle is the question, my dear; figure that out and you’re halfway home. The general idea of the chamber is the same for each student, however. It will be filled with objects, and you must leave with only what you need to prove to the queth’nondra that you understand your greatest fault—what you must overcome in order to become a good wexari. Do that, and your powers shall be restored.”

  “And if I’m wrong?” Kara asked.

  Minoth met her eyes but did not answer. They both knew what would happen to her if she were wrong.

  “What was your greatest fault?” Kara asked.

  The old schoolmaster’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Interesting,” he said. “All these years, and no one has ever asked me that. I suppose I can tell you. As you can see, I’m an unusual-looking man. At this stage in my life I’ve grown quite accustomed to it, but when I was young I was sensitive and bristled at the slightest stare. I walked my Sundering for three years before I finally realized that my outward appearance was spectacularly unimportant. I left the chamber wearing a jester’s cap and shoes with tiny bells.”

  “Which proved you didn’t care anymore if people mocked you for how you looked,” Kara said.

  Minoth held his hands out to her, palms up: Now you get it.

  “How do you know all this will still work?” Kara asked. “Like you said, the Well corrupted the queth’nondra, made it turn all those witches into monsters. Even if I answer the riddle correctly, are you sure it will still give me back my powers and not do something . . . less helpful?”

  The smile slipped from Minoth’s face.

  “No,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m really not sure what it will do. All you can do is believe. Are you ready to do that, Kara?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Do more than that. The queth’nondra does not take well to uncertainty. Make sure you’re positive before you leave the chamber. You’ll have great need of your powers in the coming days, Kara Westfall. As I said before, magic is sick. And I suspect you’re the one meant to heal it.”

  Taking a deep breath, Kara faced the door and placed her hand on the curved handle. Though her lavender dress remained dry, her red cloak, covered with the sticky substance from her journey through the tunnel, had begun to stiffen. No sense trying to blend in with the other witches anymore, Kara thought. She shed the cloak like an unwanted skin and opened the door.

  A thousand Karas greeted her, the mirrored surface of the dome reflecting her image over and over again in its endless depths. The stone floor was covered with chests of every size and description. Some were taller than Kara and had to be opened from the front, like a wardrobe. Others were small enough to hold in the palm of her hand.

  There was a sound behind her like a window slamming shut, and when Kara turned around the entrance to the room had vanished. She turned back—and saw that it had reappeared on the other side of the chamber.

  Only one way out . . .

  Ignoring the chests for now, Kara regarded herself in the nearest mirror. Her long black hair was sticky and tangled, her skin pale, her dark eyes haunted. Is that really me? She touched her cheek to make sure she was looking at her own reflection and not that of a sunken-eyed impostor.

  “Who are you?” she asked her other self. “What is your greatest fault?”

  Kara jerked away, suddenly terrified that her reflection would break the mirror-rules and reply. It didn’t. She saw her horrified expression in the mirror and laughed quietly.

  “Frightened of my own reflection,” she muttered. “Perhaps it’s courage I lack.”

  But did she? Kara remembered following Watcher into the Thickety for the first time (the thought of her old friend and how they had parted sending a pang of regret through her midsection). I broke the most important rule in De’Noran that day. And since then I’ve always done what needed to be done, whether I was scared to do it or not.

  No. It wasn’t courage that she lacked.

  Then what?

  She began opening lids, hoping to get some ideas. Each chest, regardless of its size, contained one—and only one—object. In a few cases the fault addressed by these contents was obvious. Kara found beggar’s threads in a bronze chest, no doubt intended for a wexari too attached to the comforts of gold. In another chest—this one constructed from vermillion crystal—she found a sword broken in twain. For a wexari overly enamored of violence, thought Kara. Most objects suggested multiple possibilities. A spyglass? Could be for a wexari who spends too much time looking at books and not the world outside. Then again, it might be for one who needs to think more about the future and not just the present day. A claw hammer? Perhaps for a wexari who needs to learn how to fix problems—or, just as easily, a peaceful sort who needs to learn that force is sometimes necessary. And finally there were those objects whose relevancy eluded her altogether. Painted rock? Piece of string? Cheese grater?

  She continued her search.

  At first Kara was worried that she would find no objects that applied to her, but soon the opposite was true; the stone floor, now littered with the chests’ contents, offered an endless array of possible solutions. She picked up a small clock and held it loosely in her hands. I am often impetuous, Kara thought. Rushing into things on the spur of th
e moment without considering all the possible consequences first. She thought the clock might represent her need to take more time before acting. It wasn’t a bad answer, but it didn’t feel exactly right. She placed the clock nearby—in case she changed her mind—and picked up a swaddling blanket. I’m the closest thing Taff will ever have to a mother. And I need to do a better job. He’s been in constant danger. I don’t check often enough that he’s bathed or brushed his teeth. And it’s been months since he’s seen the inside of a schoolhouse. . . .

  She supposed this was as good an answer as the clock, but not necessarily a better one—and she didn’t want to leave the chamber until there were no doubts left in her mind.

  Minoth said to take “only what you need.” Can I take both of them?

  Even as Kara considered this her eyes were drawn to a pair of half-moon spectacles. I was so easily fooled by Rygoth. Perhaps I need to see clearer in the future. . . .

  Could she bring three things? Four? All of them?

  Kara slumped to the ground.

  She could see her many faults reflected in nearly all the objects littering the floor. I’m lacking in so many ways, she thought. I can’t possibly pick just one.