Well of Witches

by J. A. White

  “Good,” Kara said. “Be ready to do your part.”

  The field grew eerily quiet. Motionless shapes, both great and small, were cast in nets of silver moonlight. A dozen graycloaks, feeling more confident now, encircled Rattle and the three children in a tightening coil. They were younger than Kara expected—little more than boys, really.

  “Who are you?” one of them asked. He had the large build of a farmer’s son and stared at the rustle-foot with a stupid, flat-eyed expression. “Why were you riding one of her monsters?”

  “This is not a monster,” Kara said. “This is Rattle. And as you might have noticed, I stopped these creatures from attacking you.”

  “How?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  He scowled and thrust his ball-staff into the air. “Witch!” he exclaimed, and the other graycloaks followed his lead. “Witch! Witch! Witch!” They started forward, raised weapons ready to strike.

  “Stop this nonsense right now,” Kara said. She had barely raised her voice, but there was something in her dark eyes that froze the men in their tracks.

  “Listen and listen well,” she said. “I know you’re followers of Timoth Clen and have been taught that anyone who uses magic is evil. But I’m a good witch. And if you don’t believe me, consider this: I just wiped out a field full of monsters without breaking a sweat. Do you really think that I would have much trouble with a handful of boys?”

  Suddenly unable to meet her eyes, the graycloaks lowered their weapons.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now someone tell me what’s going on—”

  A figure wearing a bow on his back pushed past the soldiers. Kara glimpsed familiar brown eyes.

  “Lucas!” she exclaimed.

  Kara realized it was probably unwise to take her eyes off the graycloaks, but she threw her arms around him anyway.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” he said. “The shell you gave me stopped working. Every day I tried to reach you but—”

  “It was because I was in the Well of Witches.”

  “This whole time?” Lucas asked with disbelief. “That can’t be!”

  The farmboy stepped between them.

  “You’re friends with this witch?” he asked, sneering as though some secret suspicion had been realized. “The Clen won’t like that.”

  “You’re wrong,” Lucas said. “He needs her. We all do. Most of the seasoned soldiers are dead. We’re only alive because the youngest graycloaks were bringing up the flank when they attacked. Kara here is our only chance to save our leader from certain death.”

  Lucas grinned at her. The smile was the same, but there was something different about his face.

  She noticed, for the first time, that he wore a gray cloak.

  “Lucas,” she said, a sickening feeling spreading through her stomach. “What’s going on? Why are you wearing that?”

  “A lot has happened since you left,” Lucas said. His voice sounded deeper than the last time she heard it. “I promise I’ll explain everything but right now we need to move. Rygoth has freed all the witches.” The other graycloaks stiffened, their eyes wandering far afield as though simply saying Rygoth’s name might cause her to appear. “Timoth Clen is her prisoner. We can’t get close, but maybe with your help . . .”

  “I don’t understand,” Kara said, her mind spinning. “How are you one of them? How could this have happened so quickly? I’ve only been gone a few days. A week at most.”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “You’ve been gone almost a year, Kara.”

  She staggered backward. A year?

  “No.” She felt dizzy, the world spinning out of control. “This is some kind of trick. An enchantment. Rygoth’s work—it has to be!”

  “It’s not,” Lucas said, his eyes filled with sympathy. “Time happened. I know. I was there. Why does it seem so strange to you?”

  “It’s only been a week.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Do I look any older than the last time you saw me?”

  “No,” Lucas admitted. “Different, somehow. But not older.”

  “Time doesn’t move the same way in the Well of Witches,” Taff said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. That’s why the Burngates changed from day to night in minutes, why Aunt Abby looked barely older than the day she died. Time moves faster. Or slower, depending on your point of view.”

  “Taff,” Lucas said, smiling as he noticed the boy for the first time. “I see you haven’t changed. Still smart as a whip.” Lucas’s eyes played over Grace, but he did not acknowledge her presence. Kara wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  Lucas’s eyes narrowed with concern.

  “Where’s Safi?” he asked.

  “She helped us get away from these really bad witches,” Taff said. “Twins.”

  The graycloaks grumbled among themselves, using words that Kara would have rather they kept to themselves in front of her brother.

  “We know all about the twins,” said Lucas. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “No!” Taff exclaimed. “She’s not dead! The twins were about to find us so Safi stayed behind to distract them. She’s Rygoth’s prisoner. We’ll save her!”

  Lucas knelt to one knee and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

  “Rygoth doesn’t take prisoners, Taff.”

  “She took Timoth Clen.”

  “To be executed in front of her followers. It’s nothing long-term. We have scouts who have seen her camp. They would have told us if there were any captives.”

  “Well, they just didn’t see her, then. Safi has to be somewhere. Rygoth needs her.”

  “Listen,” Lucas said slowly. “I just want you to be prepared—”

  Taff pushed him away.

  “You think she’s dead,” he snapped. “I can see it in your eyes. But you’re wrong. She’s alive. She’s my best friend and she’s still alive!”

  “I hope so,” Lucas said, rising to his feet. “If she is, I have no doubt you’ll save her.” He turned to Kara. “We need to hurry. Rygoth took your fa—” He paused, eyeing the other graycloaks. “Timoth Clen several hours ago. She’s in the graveyard up ahead, the place where the original Clen is buried, distributing grimoires to those who swear their allegiance to her. My guess is she’s forcing the Clen to watch, just to gloat. She’ll kill him afterward, though—I’m sure of it. We have to save him.”

  But after so much time, does any part of our father still remain? In her last dream of Father he had taken another—perhaps final—step toward madness, spinning a conversation with empty air. At the time, Kara imagined she had only a week or two before he was lost to her forever. That had been nearly a year ago.

  His mind must be completely lost by now. What will he be like if we bring him back? Will he even know who he is? Will he remember Taff and me at all?

  She had to try, even if there was only a small chance of ever having a father again. Kara had come this far; she would see this through to the end—for good or for ill.

  The graveyard sat on top of a small mountain. Rattle flew the group most of the way, setting down on a large boulder shielded from view by a tight thicket of trees. Kara didn’t want to risk getting any closer. If Rygoth had posted guards, the rustle-foot would be hard to miss.

  “Stay here,” she whispered into one leathery ear. “And be ready. When we come back we may need to hurry.”

  In the distance Kara could make out flickering torchlights and rounded tops of stone. The low angle prohibited her from seeing any people, but Kara knew they were up there: the silence was periodically broken by voices raised in a dark chant of exultation.

  She tried not to think about what could make Rygoth’s coven so happy.

  A narrow path led uphill between windblown trees battered by rain. Lucas took the lead, followed by Kara, Taff, and Grace. Kara had insisted on the small group. More bodies meant more noise, and right now their only advantage was the ele
ment of surprise. Kara had no illusions about her chances of beating Rygoth in a straight fight, but if she struck fast and unexpectedly it might provide enough of a distraction for the others to rescue Father and Safi.

  But first I need Grace to try to undo the curse, because if she can’t, that changes things completely. The last thing I want to do is risk my life to rescue Timoth Clen. Kara remembered the animal skeletons hanging from the Fenroot tree, the scarecrow meant to be her with a ram’s skull and black school dress. Timoth Clen is a madman who will try to kill me the moment he’s free. If there’s no chance of returning Father to his body, it might be best not to rescue him at all.

  Grace muttered something beneath her breath as she nearly slipped and fell. Though she had found a branch to use as a walking stick, the muddy ground remained difficult for her to navigate.

  “Grace,” Kara whispered, waiting for her.

  “Yes,” she grunted breathlessly. Her pretty features were pinched tight with frustration. “What?”

  “Things may get tricky once we reach the graveyard. It’ll be best if I give this to you now.”

  Kara slid her hand into her cloak and carefully removed the grimoire page, pieces flaking off like burned crumbs. I hope it still works, Kara thought, offering the magical paper to the girl who had once tried to kill her. Grace gazed at the page with solemn reverence and then took it with two hands. The moment her fingers touched the paper she giggled with unadulterated joy.

  “I can feel the power,” she said. “It tickles.”

  “Put it away before it gets wet. We can’t have it taking any more damage than it already has.”

  Grace quickly slipped the page beneath her cloak.

  “I know we’ve had our little differences,” Grace said, “but you held up your end of the bargain and I’ll do what you asked. You can trust me.”

  “No, I can’t,” Kara said. “I’m sure that as soon as you have the opportunity you’ll try to stab me in the back. You might even succeed. I know how clever you are. But if you fail, I’ll throw you back into the Well myself, I promise. How do you think the Faceless will greet you, Grace? The girl who escaped and made them look like fools.” Kara leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “I’m sure they’ll have a special mask waiting just for you.”

  Grace drew back, her lips trembling, and Kara felt a momentary pang of guilt. Did I go too far? Did she really mean it when she said I could trust her? But then the expression on Grace’s face shifted and Kara’s feelings of guilt dissipated. The white-haired girl examined Kara like a butcher regarding a slab of meat, considering which angle to make the first slice.

  Ah, Kara thought. There you are.

  “You’re wrong about me,” Grace snapped, gripping Kara’s wrist with her ice-cold hand. “I will do what you ask today. And I would never stab you in the back. I wouldn’t use a knife at all. When I finally get the best of you, it’ll be a spell that does it.” Noticing something over Kara’s shoulder, Grace canted her head and said, “Hmm. How interesting.”

  Kara turned around.

  Lucas had notched an arrow to his bow. It was pointed straight at her.

  “Lucas?” she asked.

  “I can’t believe you really did it,” he said, stepping around Kara and swiveling his bow in Grace’s direction. “You rescued her. Grace Stone. I didn’t want to say anything until we were alone, because if the other graycloaks knew the truth it would have been impossible to convince them you were on our side. I had to wait.”

  “What are you doing?” Kara asked.

  Lucas pulled the bowstring back and gritted his teeth, willing himself to let the arrow fly. Grace stared into his eyes with a slight smirk on her face.

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” Lucas said, “but I can’t let her undo the curse. You weren’t here this past year. You didn’t see the burning villages, the corpses piled on top of one another. Without Timoth Clen, who’s going to stop the witches? Who’s going to save us?”

  Kara stepped between Lucas and Grace, blocking his shot.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Move, Kara. Please.”

  “You need to trust me.”

  “I do, you know I do, but—”

  “If today has proven anything it’s that Timoth Clen doesn’t have a chance against Rygoth. He’s been taken prisoner. His army was wiped out. You and all your new graycloak friends would be dead right now if I hadn’t come in time. You know what that tells me? The world doesn’t need a witch hunter. It needs a witch.”

  Lucas stared at Kara for a long time and then lowered his bow.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

  Kara looked back at Grace, her wet hair plastered against her skull. She was smiling.

  So do I, Kara thought.

  By the time they reached the graveyard the rain had finally stopped. Past three rings of massive, oblong stones half-buried in the earth, Kara could see torch-lit figures moving in the night. She carefully made her way from ring to ring until she reached the innermost circle and pressed her back against a slick wet stone. The others followed her lead, each using a different stone for cover.

  Taking a deep breath, Kara peeked just far enough to see into the graveyard.

  There were no tombstones. Instead, hundreds of violet pyramids, ranging in height from a kneeling child to a full-size man, created a labyrinth in the muddy ground. The pyramids had been constructed from some sort of sea glass, and in the moonlight Kara could see mummified corpses pressed against their semitransparent walls.

  Between the pyramidal coffins walked the witches.

  They were all dressed the same: black cloaks that reached down to their ankles and bore the crimson crest of a double-fanged spider. Hoods concealed their faces but not the grimoires in their hands.

  Fifty of them, Kara thought. Maybe more.

  Three stones down, Kara heard Taff’s sudden intake of breath. Their eyes met, and he pointed to an area of the graveyard that she was unable to see from her current vantage point. She crossed behind the stone and peeked out from the other side, hoping for a better angle.

  Her stomach lurched.

  Near the northern edge of the graveyard stood an ancient black obelisk engraved with faded, forgotten letters. Her father was chained to it. He was barely conscious and his white robe was slashed and speckled with red. The cruel, Clenian edges cut into his face had been smoothed by exhaustion and pain; at that moment, he looked like their father again.

  Kara heard a low, musical laugh.

  Rygoth.

  She sat on a pile of animal bones crafted into a makeshift throne, closer to Kara’s hiding place than the obelisk but facing off to the side. The long dress she wore was the dark purple of a lingering bruise and embroidered with silver weblike patterns. Her long white gloves gleamed like polished ivory. By her side sat the wolf with the scorpion tail.

  “I grow tired of waiting,” Rygoth said, yawning into the back of her hand. “Who’s next?”

  At the opposite end of the graveyard a dozen girls dressed practically in rags pawed through a pile of leather volumes. These must be the girls that Rygoth rescued from the iron cages, Kara thought. They’re choosing their grimoires from what’s left of the stock Rygoth transported from Kala Malta. Two black-cloaked witches found a girl already clinging to a spellbook and shoved her forward. Her face was filthy, her hair dirty and unkempt.

  “Did it call to you?” Rygoth asked, gesturing toward the grimoire in the girl’s hands. “Did it speak your true name?”

  The girl nodded.

  “You feel its power, don’t you? After all those months in that cage, you burn to use it. Don’t fight your feelings, dear. You’re absolutely right. The world does deserve to be punished for what it did to you. Just vow your undying loyalty to me, and you’ll never be weak again.”

  The girl dropped to one knee.

  “I, Holly Lamson, swear that—”

  “Not like that,” Rygoth said. “I have no inter
est in words. Haven’t you been watching the others?”

  The girl nodded subserviently.

  “Then you know what to do.”

  Holly crossed to the black obelisk. She considered the man before her, perhaps feeling a final moment of pity, and then opened her new grimoire to the first page. Strange words poured forth from her lips. Timoth Clen screamed in pain as an invisible force whipped his chest, leaving a new tear in his shirt.

  Holly gasped in childlike delight, amazed by what she had done. The other witches swarmed around her, chanting, “Welcome, sister! May darkness embrace and empower you!” A black cloak was pulled over Holly’s head and she was folded into the coven.

  Another ragged girl was shoved in front of Rygoth. The process began anew.

  Kara did not want her father—her real father—suffering through the pain that Timoth Clen must be experiencing at that moment, but there was no more time to wait. She needed to know if all her efforts had been worth it.

  Here we go, she thought, nodding toward Grace.

  The girl eagerly withdrew the tattered page. Kara closely observed Grace’s every movement, ready to act at the slightest sign of duplicity; she had already built mind-bridges to a pair of large vultures perched at the top of the stone, just in case.

  If she gives me the slightest reason I won’t hesitate to send them.

  “That’s not right,” Grace mumbled, staring down at the page. “That’s not what I need.”

  Biting her lower lip, Grace focused all her energy on the page. Her hands began to tremble. A ribbon of paper tore away and fluttered to the ground.

  “Give me what I want,” she said. “Give me, give me, give me . . .”

  Grace smiled victoriously.

  She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, and spoke the words.

  Chains rattled as Timoth Clen jerked forward, his eyes rolling back in his head. Grace spoke faster, and then faster still, the words blending together, a sweeping of sounds. Beads of sweat rolled down her left temple.

  Kara looked back at her father and saw him cough out a puff of black, polluted air.

  “She’s doing it,” Taff whispered, his face aglow with hope. “It’s really working!”