From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  Evadine ran over to a long, thin table along the wall and pulled a small glass orb out of her pocket. She lifted it to her mouth and it glowed softly, another bit of pre-made magic. Eva set it down on the table, and music rose from it, quiet at first but steadily getting louder. Guerline pressed a hand to her chest, sighing happily.

  Eva turned and walked back to her, holding out a hand. “Dance with me, Lina.”

  “Always,” Guerline replied.

  She took Eva’s hand in her right and stepped into her arms, placing her left hand on Eva’s upper arm. Eva slipped her hand into the middle of Guerline’s upper back, and Guerline smiled at the comfortable pressure. She leaned in closer, and Eva rested her cheek against the skin above Guerline’s ear, swaying gently side to side to get the beat of the music.

  “Are you ready?” Eva asked.

  “Yes,” Guerline said.

  They broke into the three-step pattern of the most common formal Aridan dance, sweeping through the empty ballroom. Eva was a superb leader, having always taken that part in the years of lessons they shared as children. They had been dancing together so long that there was almost no hesitation between Eva’s cue and Guerline’s response. Guerline could anticipate Eva’s patterns from the slightest twitch of her fingers, the barest intake of breath.

  “I’ve missed this so much, Eva,” Guerline said.

  Eva’s hand tightened against her back. “So have I. I . . . I know I’ve been distant.”

  Guerline took a deep breath and moved her hand to Eva’s shoulder, squeezing just slightly. She wanted to tell Eva it was all right, that it meant the world to her that Eva had brought her here, brought the music, and offered her a dance even after the disastrous council meeting. But her heart was in her throat, putting a stop to any words she might have said in response.

  The song faded and the two women spun slowly to a stop. Eva kept her arm around Guerline’s waist, and pulled their clasped outstretched hands in to rest against her chest. Guerline could feel Eva’s heartbeat, steady behind her ribcage. She looked up into her lover’s face and felt dread rising around her, as if she were slowly sinking into cold water. Eva lowered her head until her forehead rested against Guerline’s, and they stood silently together like that for several moments.

  “Do you remember the first time we came down here to dance by ourselves?” Guerline asked breathlessly. She was desperate to hold on to the beauty of the dance; to somehow get back to how she’d felt days ago, before her terrible realization that she must stand separate from all, even the one she loved most.

  Evadine grinned. “The night of Seryne’s Feast. They hadn’t cleaned up the ribbons yet.”

  “We spun in them until we’d tied our own ankles together.”

  “And then we dragged ourselves around the floor pretending to be mermaids for two hours,” Eva said. “What silly children we were.”

  Guerline smiled and leaned back. Her smile faded slightly as she took in Eva’s expression, serious and thoughtful, her brow creasing just above the bridge of her nose and her grey eyes dancing over Guerline’s face. Guerline narrowed her eyes, studying Evadine’s face in response.

  “What is it, Eva?” she asked.

  “I’m so glad you survived, Lina. For whatever reason, curse or wild beast, all your family died and you survived, and I am so glad. I couldn’t—Lina, I know we fought yesterday, but you must know that I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you,” Eva said.

  She let go of Guerline’s hand and put her own on either side of Guerline’s face. Guerline let her hands settle on Eva’s waist and looked up at her, watching tears fill Eva’s eyes, mirroring her own.

  “I know,” Guerline said, the only words she could muster. “Eva, I know. And I love you for it. I don’t want to fight again. But we must—”

  Eva kissed her on the mouth, briefly, then leaned back and smiled as Guerline stared, wide-eyed, up at her. Guerline licked her lips.

  “Eva,” she exhaled.

  “Shh, Lina. Let’s talk policy tomorrow.” She kissed Guerline again, longer this time, and Guerline’s surprise faded. Her limbs reanimated and she leaned into the contact. She tightened her grip on Eva’s waist and sighed against Eva’s lips when the other woman moved one hand to the back of her neck. Eva opened her mouth and the kiss deepened, eliciting a moan from both of them. Guerline pulled ever so slightly away and bit her bottom lip.

  “Run away with me, Eva,” she whispered. Her heart took off at a gallop, unsure that she’d actually said the words out loud until Eva responded.

  “Soon.”

  Eva kissed her again, and Guerline felt wetness on her cheeks. She pulled back and saw tears spilling from Eva’s eyes. She opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, Eva snapped her back into the dance frame and whisked her into the pattern. She spun Guerline out, and Guerline inhaled sharply as she whirled, surprise forming a quick hard knot in her chest. Eva pulled her back in and Guerline stumbled into her. Holding Guerline tight against her, Eva spun them both around with increasing speed.

  “Eva!” Guerline shouted.

  The two of them stopped spinning and stumbled, falling to their knees in a tangle of dresses. Guerline righted herself and reached for Evadine, grasping her lover’s hands and pulling her up to sit. She started to chuckle, but stopped when she saw the slack expression on Eva’s face.

  “What is it? Eva?”

  “I see him in my dreams. Alcander. Every night for the past week. He comes to me, all dead-skinned and rotten, his arm missing . . . he says the most terrible things about you,” Eva whispered.

  Her face scrunched up and tears fell faster from her eyes. Guerline listened, motionless, sure that even her heart had stopped beating. She was not the only one plagued by the dead. Relief and fear warred in her mind. If Eva had nightmare visions of a dead Alcander too, that meant Guerline was not going mad. It meant something far worse. It meant they were haunted. Guerline remembered Fiona’s small smile at the watch as she turned away from Guerline—was it possible Fiona was as treacherous as Eva claimed? Was there any source but Thiymen clan for this kind of terrible necromancy?

  Or was it simply that they were both going mad? Hysterical laughter seemed to fill Guerline’s mind. It was impossible to tell whether it was inside or outside her head; Eva, if she heard it, made no reaction to it, weeping into her knees. If Guerline could see visions of Johan and Alcander and blame them on abuse, then so could Eva, in equal measure. Had Arido put two madwomen in charge of the empire?

  Eva lifted her grey gaze to Guerline’s. “I’m glad he’s dead, Lina. I never—he hated you so much!”

  Guerline licked her lips and fought to breathe steadily. “It’s just a nightmare, Eva. I’m sure.”

  “It feels so real. He haunts my steps, he worms into my dreams like a parasite, and I feel it—” Eva grabbed Guerline by the shoulders. “Yes. It’s real, Lina. I don’t know how he does it or why, but I want it to stop. It’s magic, and it’s vile, and we have to put an end to it before he comes to kill you.”

  Guerline pulled Eva into her arms and held her tightly, squeezing against the rapid, uneven rise and fall of Eva’s breath. She focused on her own, inhaling deep into her lungs, and stared with unfocused eyes at the opposite wall of the ballroom. The soft glow of the music glass was visible in her periphery. She narrowed in on it and wished she knew more about magic. All the magic she had contact with was prepared ahead of time by a witch and sold for a human’s use—was there a limit on that sort of power? Could a witch trap souls in little orbs like that one, did a human have the ability to sic those souls on others?

  Anger and fear quivered in Guerline’s limbs; confusion frustrated her racing thoughts. Eva’s visions of the dead had only increased her revulsion of magic. Guerline was glad to have an explanation for Eva’s increased vehemence, but the question remained—was she right? Was magic too dangerous to be so liberally used? Were the witches deliberately using magic against her?

  As
Evadine calmed in her arms, Guerline watched the glow of the music glass die and remembered her words to Theodor the previous morning. She couldn’t run, or hide. She wasn’t going mad. Her ghosts were tormenting Evadine too, and they had to be stopped. But Guerline could not write off all magic as quickly as Eva. She had questions that needed answering, and only the witches had those answers.

  She leaned back and put a hand on Eva’s cheek, looking into the other woman’s grey eyes. “We’ll set things right, Eva. Whatever that means in the end. And we’ll do it together. Yes?”

  Eva nodded. Her lips were slightly parted. Guerline glanced down at them, then leaned in and kissed her lover softly.

  “Come on,” Guerline said. “It’s late, and we’re not children anymore. Let’s go to bed.”

  She’d meant it innocently, but her heart leapt at the wicked grin Eva gave her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Olivia Kavanagh stood in her study, staring at the map of Arido on the wall. The desk behind her was laden with messages brought over the past few hours. Aradia said that the situation in the south was worse. The receding seas and a new sickness in the soil would cause an unprecedented famine. It was too much to hope that there would not be confusion and anger, or panic.

  Morgana’s position was becoming serious as well. After witnessing one of the deadly sandstorms, the visiting wizards confirmed Morgana’s fears: the wind came from the Wastes. The human governor of Braeden insisted on blaming Raeha and had launched a campaign to turn the cities of the west against Fortress Adenen.

  And Fiona . . .

  The record of Fiona’s seal was terse and formal, like most messages from Thiymen. At the end, however, was a hastily scrawled note, unsigned, that Olivia could only assume was from the Thiymen Memory, Kanika Asenath.

  She will kill herself before she asks for help, the younger witch wrote. This thing is too much for her alone. She needs all of you. Please, do not forsake your sister.

  Olivia read it again, her heart aching. It was true that Fiona did not ask for help, she never had. She could cling to her pride until the disastrous final hour; but Olivia had long feared that the source of Arido’s troubles was in the bowels of the east. All the ancient tales gathered by her predecessor, Neria, spoke of a great battle that culminated in the dark mountain range that Fiona now called home. Each tale carried the ominous warning that the consequences of that battle still loomed over the future of Arido. Olivia had tried, several times, to get Fiona to share her notes. Her younger sister had been nearer the underworld, spent more time in it, than any living thing in Arido. Olivia knew she had uncovered most, if not all, of that realm’s secrets. But her entreaties had not convinced Fiona to hand over that knowledge to Sitosen, as she should; for though each clan might have its own Memory, Sitosen was the record-keeper of all, human and witch alike.

  Why Fiona guarded the underworld so jealously, Olivia couldn’t fathom, and now it was haunting her just as her sisters had always said it would. Try as she might to contain it, Fiona would need the help of all her sisters, and soon.

  Olivia sat down at her desk and pulled out a blank piece of parchment. She would write to Fiona and offer her support.

  She had not put quill to page before there was a sharp knock on her door. Instead of waiting for her permission to enter, whoever it was swung the door open immediately. None of her witches would dare bypass such a simple courtesy except in times of emergency. The witch, a scribe named Sora, breathed too heavily to get any words out; she could only gesture fruitlessly down the stairs. Olivia nodded and strode swiftly past her.

  They raced down the tower stairs and burst into the hall. The desks that lined it were no longer occupied by studious, silent witches. Only a few had witches bending over them, flipping feverishly through books. Other witches raced back and forth along the book-lined walls, pulling more volumes and handing them off to the readers. Five or six were gathered around the source of the commotion, in the center of the hall. Sora hesitated as they neared it; Olivia proceeded firmly, but with caution. Sitosen Castle rarely saw such a ruckus, and a heavy feeling of foreboding settled in Olivia’s chest.

  The witches parted when they realized she was there. Two men, dressed in dark leathers with a pile of weapons and harnesses at their feet, lay unconscious. One was older, around forty; the other was barely twenty. At first glance, the older man seemed to be merely sleeping; but as Olivia knelt and looked closer, she saw that his pale northern skin was too pale. He was almost completely white, and his body was still.

  Olivia reached out slowly and put one hand on his chest, one on his neck. There was still a pulse, and he was breathing, though both signs of life were almost imperceptible. As she lifted the hand on his chest, it caught a flap of torn leather. She gingerly pulled the flap back. Underneath, a large chunk of the man’s stomach was torn away, the edges ragged with an animal’s teeth marks. The skin darkened at the edge of the tear to black, curling under like a withering leaf. There was no blood, not even dried stains.

  Olivia looked at the witch who sat with the man’s head in her lap, dabbing at his forehead and holding one hand over his eyes. The witch met Olivia’s gaze and nodded to the unspoken question. He was beyond saving.

  She turned her attention to the boy. Like the man, he was corpse-pale, but he wasn’t as badly injured. From what Olivia could see, he had only been scratched by whatever had attacked them. The scratches were shallow, and showed the same blackening as the bite mark. The problem with the boy was the fever. He perspired and convulsed, but his skin was cold to the touch—a black magic fever.

  “Keep the man stable for as long as you can,” Olivia said quietly. “As for the boy, excise the blackened skin and dress the wounds. Keep him warm and hydrated.”

  The witches moved quickly to fulfill her orders. Olivia went outside. Sora followed her, and the two witches walked quickly and silently.

  “They’re hunters,” the younger witch said after a few moments. “From Javan. Marqa found them near the Gap of Nor. She heard whatever attacked them as it ran away. She said it shrieked like a banshee.”

  Olivia frowned. Why had they been so deep in the forest? The Gap was on the eastern edge, a canyon formed in the trees by the foothills of the Zaide and Landene Mountains. Javan was more than one hundred miles from the Gap, too far for most hunters. It was possible that the beasts had carried them that far, but there were few creatures from the Gap region that grew large enough to carry two human men such a distance.

  “Did the boy say anything?” Olivia asked.

  Sora nodded. “He said that there were two of them. They were large like a bear, but looked more like wolves, and their fur was black. The readers pulled all our zoological indexes, but they haven’t found anything that matches the description, not even in the palaeozoology books.”

  Olivia stopped and pulled a long pendant out from under her dress, holding it in her hands. It was a golden compact, four inches in diameter; the owl that was her symbol was carved into the top. Sora inhaled with a sharp hiss and stepped back. Each of the Kavanagh sisters possessed one of the mirrors. It was their fastest means of communication with each other, to be used only in times of serious need.

  She clicked open the latch on the compact. The top half was the mirror, and in the bottom half were three compartments, each covered and marked by the symbol of the sisters: the hammer for Morgana, the wreath for Aradia, and the dragon head for Fiona. Olivia popped the cover of the last compartment, revealing a fine black powder. She dipped her little finger into the powder, then closed the compartment and put her finger in her mouth. The powder tasted sulfuric, like dank and rot, and with this on her breath, she exhaled and spoke Fiona’s name.

  The mirror darkened. When the blackness cleared, Olivia’s reflection was gone, replaced by her sister’s face. For a moment, Olivia forgot why she’d called. How long had it been since she’d seen Fiona? Surely she hadn’t always looked so . . . dead. Kanika Asenath had been right to beg Fiona’
s sisters for help. She obviously needed it.

  “Olivia.” Fiona’s voice barely hinted at happiness, only recognizable to someone who had known her before she became the leader of the most hated clan in Arido.

  “Fiona.” Olivia smiled, blinking away tears. She could regret not talking to her sister for so long later. At the moment, they both had a problem which needed to be dealt with. “Two hunters were attacked this morning. I fear that it was the work of hounds.”

  Fiona’s eyes flashed. She recognized, as Olivia had known she would, that they were not talking about normal hounds. There was only one sort of hound that would prompt Olivia to seek Fiona’s help.

  “Hounds? More than one?”

  “The boy said two.”

  Fiona turned away from the mirror and spoke a few sharp orders to someone Olivia couldn’t see.

  “I’ve sent my Captain of the Guard,” she said. “She’ll be able to tell you for sure if it was hounds. Are the men still alive?”

  “The man is almost gone. I believe we can still save the boy. He was only scratched.”

  Fiona nodded. The venom wasn’t as strong in the claws as it was in the teeth.

  “Use an ivy poultice on the scratches. Hopefully that will keep him safe until Moira arrives.”

  Olivia nodded and closed the compact. She exhaled slowly and looked over at Sora. The two witches were silent for a moment; then they turned simultaneously and ran full-out back to the castle. They burst into the hall. Olivia shouted for someone to bring her the ivy poultice and went over to the dying boy. His convulsions were getting weaker. The older man was being kept alive only by magic. The witch’s hand, poised over his eyes, trembled. She smiled resolutely at Olivia.

  “Tesla, relieve Carulina, please,” she said gently to a nearby witch. Tesla nodded and slowly took Carulina’s place at the man’s head.

  Sora came running up with a bowl and set it on the floor next to her. Olivia smelled the ivy as she approached, clean and bright and alive. The other witches had finished cutting away the dead edges of skin. The scratches now were lined by raw, pink, but definitely living, flesh. Olivia turned the boy toward her to start with a scratch on his right side, scooped up a sizable amount of the poultice, and began to dab it onto the wound.