From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  But now death had finally come to her, and she did not plan to go on any terms but her own. In a way, she was grateful that the creature had chosen to rear its head now. Because of it, she could spend herself doing the thing she did best: keeping the underworld under the mountain.

  She walked forward, the makeshift gate still expanding in front of her. The creature sensed her coming and screamed at her. It doubled its efforts against the old gate, pounding and scratching behind the rock.

  “What are you doing, witchling?” Its voice rumbled through the rocky chamber, dark and rasping, Aridan laid over the guttural language of the underworld. “You cannot put me away forever.”

  Fiona did not respond. Her temporary gate was now as large as the one it needed to reinforce. Her march forward slowed as she met resistance from the force on the other side. It was much stronger now than two days ago; or perhaps she was simply weaker. Though Silas’s blood gave her more fortitude than she expected, it wasn’t enough to completely restore her. She closed her eyes and gathered what was left of her power in the center of her being. One blast was all she had; one chance to put a stop to this thing until the cavalry arrived.

  “You’re dying, witchling. Don’t be a fool. I can give you eternal life,” it purred at her.

  Fiona closed her eyes, her face relaxed as she prepared herself.

  “You stupid thing. I have no fear of death,” she said.

  Please come soon, sisters.

  She cried out and pushed forward with all her might, running full-tilt at the sheet of black rock. The creature screamed in return, pushing back. Fiona collided with the wall. There was a bright flash of purple. The sounds of the thing screaming faded with the light. Fiona stood where she was, leaning against the rock, breathing heavily. Her fingers trembled and felt hot. She looked down and realized that her hands and wrists were bleeding. The blood flowed freely from cuts made by the jagged rock. She rolled over against the wall. Everyone ran toward her. She held up her bloody hands and spread her arms before them in a gesture of reassurance and peace.

  Fiona smiled and slid down the wall, dead.

  “No! No!” Kanika fell to her knees at the feet of Fiona’s corpse and clutched the hem of Fiona’s robe. The Guard fell down with her. Their weeping echoed through the cavern. Silas knelt and silently gathered her lover’s body up in her arms. She folded Fiona’s hands in her lap and wrapped the many layers of her robes over them, to cover up the blood. With that out of sight, and the smile still lingering on her face, Fiona looked almost young again, the way Silas remembered her on the day they’d met: smooth ivory skin, inky black hair, lovely red lips, and bright, carefree eyes blue as a deep lake. Now she was pure white, even down to her eyelashes. Silas was almost surprised that she had bled.

  The mourning was interrupted by a growl that turned into a whine. Silas looked up and saw a giant grey wolf standing a few yards from them. It was panting heavily, its tongue lolling, and its eyes were fixed on Fiona.

  The sight of the wolf sent the death of her lover home, and Silas too wept. She clutched Fiona’s shoulders as tears streamed down her dark cheeks.

  “You came too late,” she said to the wolf. “You came too late.”

  The wolf whined again and walked toward them. The witches drew back.

  “Is it really you?” Kanika asked it tentatively.

  In response, the wolf only stared at her. Kanika looked at Silas, who shook her head. The wolf went right to Fiona, licked her face gently, and then touched its nose to her chest. Her soul came forth out of her body, a translucent and shimmering blue version of Fiona. The soul ignored her gathered mourners and put a hand on the wolf’s snout. A crackling portal to the underworld opened a few feet away, and from it the witches could hear the song of Ilys. The wolf guided Fiona’s soul to the portal and lifted her through; then the portal closed and the song was gone.

  In the silence, the wolf turned to look at the mourners.

  Bury her, it said.

  Then it bounded out of the cavern.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morgana’s sword hissed, glowing red-orange and shimmering with heat as she swept it through the air. She held it in one hand, the other hand beside the blade, fingers twitching as she manipulated the magic surrounding it. As her fingers moved, the molten metal twisted, changing from a longsword into a curved saber. A few more movements of her hand, and the blade cooled rapidly, holding its new form. When the blade shone silver again, Morgana swung it with considerable force at the sparring dummy she’d animated. The dummy’s head flew across the room; she pulled it back with a gesture and reattached it, then drew her hand back to melt the blade again.

  The spell was one she’d been working on in her spare time for a while. She’d taken a forging spell which heated the blade without a furnace, designed for smithies on campaigns so that weapons could be repaired on the march, and added the cooling component so that the process was much faster. She’d been practicing her timing: her goal was to make it battle-functional, so that a witch could repair a weapon or armor on the field as quickly as possible. It was no replacement for traditional forging, but it was enough to get through a battle.

  Morgana had gotten quite good at the spell, but she still liked to practice because it took her mind off of other worrisome things. Tonight, it was her sisters she was worried about. She at least felt like she was making some progress in the troubles of her region, after the Artan Forge fiasco. She and Aasim had discovered the source of the sandstorms, and while they still had no idea what was making the winds leave the Wastes now, they at least had a better idea of how to protect against them. Her sisters were not quite so lucky. Olivia had underworld creatures getting loose in her forests, and the report of Fiona’s latest seal on the gate was unsettling. Poor Aradia was no closer to halting the sea’s retreat, and everything else in the South had come to a standstill as people congregated at the ports, both to help bring goods in from stranded boats and to scavenge what they could from the take. Fear was beginning to grip the peninsula, and zealots were bringing it to the capital.

  Angrily, Morgana stabbed through the wooden torso of the dummy. She was a savvy politician, but not nearly as patient as Olivia or Aradia. She detested empty talk and the fear-mongering tactics of the human government. Adenen was already beginning to feel the backlash of the wizards’ presence at Artan, in the form of cowardly, anonymous notes and packages with curses and superstitious sachets. They were too afraid to do more, too afraid to actually deny service to Adenen—for now. Governor Derouk had written to Evadine Malise, and the knowledge of Morgana’s allegiance with the Atithi wizards was rippling from Del back into the west. Doubt was beginning to gnaw at the people. Morgana had issued a report, explained as well as she could the situation, but humans had difficulty understanding the magic, and the naysayers were much more vocal. Her people were being bombarded with the hatred of fools like Derouk, who had such a narrow understanding of what was going on.

  Perhaps she and her sisters kept too much from the Aridans; but would they even listen? The country had little interest in magical affairs. Even when they were directly affected, as with the sandstorms, the people did not say, “why is this happening?” They demanded the problem fixed, without caring to understand what was going on. It was infuriating. What was she supposed to do; what were any of the witches supposed to do?

  Morgana severed the dummy’s torso with an impassioned yell and a forceful swipe of her saber. As the dummy slid apart and collapsed, she threw her sword down in disgust. It clattered on the stone, echoing in the vastness of the sparring room. She stared at it, chest heaving, as it slowly rolled on its guard to a stop.

  Oh, how she wished things could be different. She did not want to battle whatever was lurking in the Zaide Mountains and the people of her own country! Something would have to be done. She would speak to her sisters tomorrow; perhaps, if they all went to Del and spoke with the empress, they could quell this dissension and focus on the real thre
at.

  She turned away from the rubble to go up to her rooms—she didn’t even know what time it was—but stopped when she saw Aasim standing in the door. He was dressed for sleep, as he had been when she’d roused him the night of the Artan sandstorm: bare-chested, in linen trousers that were tied just below his knees. He was barefoot. The light from the torches burning on either side of the door played across his muscular, golden chest and enhanced the strong features of his face; but despite all the shadows and reliefs that made him look sharp and harsh, she saw softness in his gaze. He was looking at her with concern. She saw the dismembered dummy in her mind again. He must have been watching for some time; he had seen her lose her composure.

  “Lady Morgana, are you all right?” he asked. Though they had dispensed with formalities when fighting the sandstorm, he had since been exceedingly proper with her. She had not been so with him, simply because the sotu had no individual titles, but she also did not feel the need for the screen of propriety between them.

  “Yes, Aasim,” she said, smiling wearily. She thought of the dummy again and her smile became wry. “At least, I am as well as I can be, given the circumstances.”

  He approached her, his bare feet hardly making a sound. She drifted toward him as well, her boots thudding softly with each step.

  “We have learned much about the sandstorms,” he said. She smiled, appreciating the way he approached the conversation. He was asking, without really asking, what was bothering her.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And with time, I think my sisters and I could solve all of the problems plaguing the continent. But I don’t think the humans will give us that time.”

  “And that is what frustrates you,” Aasim said. She nodded. He reached out and squeezed her bare shoulder in a comforting way; then he placed his free hand on her other shoulder and pulled her slightly closer. Morgana’s lips parted in surprise. Aasim had shown himself to be steady and calm, composed even at Artan. But there was intensity in him now. She felt warmth rise in her, almost as if it came from his warm hands on her skin.

  “Morgana, I have no doubts that the humans of your country will not stop you from prevailing against this evil. You are stronger than these debates. You are strong, and . . . lovely.” He paused, his grip on her shoulders relaxing. He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. Unconsciously, Morgana ducked her head into the contact. Her hands rose slowly to rest themselves on Aasim’s hips.

  “And men cannot help but love you,” he said softly.

  He cupped her cheek with his hand and caressed her with his thumb. She smiled at the tenderness of the touch. She had had human lovers before, as all witches had; but in her experience, the touch of these men had been filled with a strange combination of reverence and incredulity. Aasim’s had neither: respect in place of reverence, assurance in place of incredulity, and the warmth of affection. Slowly, she turned and softly kissed his thumb once, twice. She looked back up at him and saw relief wash over his face: the expression of a man whose gamble had paid off. His other hand came up and tangled itself in her hair, cradling the back of her head as his thumb brushed back and forth over her lips. Her hands inched up his body until her fingers met skin and she pressed her hands into him, pulling him closer.

  “Aasim,” she exhaled.

  As if he had been given permission, Aasim leaned down and kissed her. He held her head in both hands, and while his kisses were soft, the tension in his hands betrayed the restraint he was showing. Morgana wrapped her arms around him and pulled him flush against her. His body radiated heat, and his light trousers did nothing to hide his arousal. They broke apart abruptly and stared at each other, breathing shallowly. Then, with the smallest of movements, they turned toward the door and were suddenly in Morgana’s chambers.

  As they whipped through her door, it slammed shut behind them, carried by the gust their travel created. Eyes locked, Morgana advanced, and Aasim retreated until they were standing at the edge of her bed. Aasim slowly unlaced Morgana’s jerkin, kissing her, while she drew her knees up one at a time to remove her boots. When Aasim had pulled the laces free of the last holes, Morgana shrugged out of the jerkin and let it fall to the floor. In the brief pause that followed, she smirked up at Aasim.

  He smiled back; then, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, they fell back onto the bed.

  In the same moment, there was a loud crash. Morgana and Aasim broke apart abruptly, looking down to see if it was the bed that had broken. But the crashes continued, and they quickly realized it was coming from outside the room. Morgana jumped off the bed and quickly threw on a shirt.

  Seconds later, the door crashed open.

  “What in the hell is—” Morgana began angrily.

  The words died in her throat when she saw who was standing in the door. The giant grey wolf hardly seemed to fit in the doorway. Her gold eyes were fixed on Morgana, her lip curled and teeth bared. The hair on her back was raised, and her ears were laid flat against her head. Morgana stared, eyes wide, and slowly sank to the floor. Aasim had backed up to her headboard, looking terrified himself. They had no creatures like this in Raeha. There were only three creatures like this left in the whole world.

  “Please—” Morgana begged.

  Her words were cut off by a growl, and the wolf advanced two steps.

  You will come now, she said.

  She growled again and the room spun.

  Olivia sat on a tree stump, staring in disbelief at the massive fox that sat opposite her. It was jet black, and as big as a wolf. Olivia could only imagine how big the wolf must be in comparison—like a horse, a large horse, or bigger. Like a bear.

  History is coming alive around me, she thought, feeling slightly faint. Many in the North regarded her as a seer, which she had tolerated; reading runes was a far cry from actually seeing the future, though—one of the myriad distinctions that escaped even her knowledgeable northerners. Now, she felt that she could never again purport to make even the smallest of prophecies. She was an utter failure as an oracle. Otherwise, she would have seen this coming.

  Aradia lay on the ground not far off, trailing her fingers through a patch of wildflowers. She seemed peaceful, at least. When she’d been brought by the gigantic tiger curled up behind her, she’d immediately fallen to her knees and kissed the ground. Olivia knew that Aradia must have been reassured to be on living soil again, and she seemed to have forgotten all else for the time being.

  Perhaps she is the wise one here, Olivia thought. Guessing is certainly not giving me any comfort.

  When Olivia left her son in Olsrec, her intention had been to go first to Morgana, and then Aradia, and convince them to go east with her. Kanika’s message from Thiymen had concerned her, and the appearance of hounds in her forest had frightened her. Olivia felt certain that Fiona was in trouble she could not handle alone. Their responsibility to help her came from every possible angle. They were sisters, they were partners, they were friends. They had a familial obligation and a political duty.

  They had already put off seeing each other for far too long. They could communicate easily enough through magic, but the four sisters rarely traveled. There was often just too much to do at home, but even that was not a justification, with many able-bodied witches at each sister’s command. They had all just become so wrapped up in their own worlds that they’d forgotten each other, and the country, as the country had forgotten them.

  Oh, my son. I gave you an impossible task. Desmond had made many contacts around Arido in his years of traveling, but his words were only words as long as the Kavanaghs remained locked up behind their remote castle doors. And to have no witches living in the capital! It was no wonder the nobles sought to change the order of things. The current order no longer made sense to them. Olivia wondered if perhaps they were right.

  Her reflections were interrupted by a rush of wind. She raised her arms to protect her face. When the wind died down, she saw before her Morgana and the Great Wolf herself. She was indeed massive
, and Olivia felt her breath catch in her throat.

  “Gods,” she said, unbidden in her amazement.

  And so they were. Before her were the shifter gods: the wolf Lisyne, the fox Seryne, and the tiger Tirosyne. They really did seem like gods to her in that moment, huge and rippling with power.

  But being a witch, Olivia knew the truth. The shifter gods were not gods at all, they were shapeshifters; the last three remaining members of a powerful magical race. The shapeshifters were creatures born completely of magic, springing forth from nature fully grown. They lived long and were born rarely, and before history began, there were dozens of them in the world. They changed forms at will and traveled the wilderness.

  When the humans came, the shapeshifters learned the human shape and human ways, and sometimes traveled about with them. The shapeshifters commanded magic at will, and it was this that made the humans call them gods. The three who spent the most time among humans were the three who remained on the altars in the temples, and the three who stood before her now.

  Before long, magic came to the humans too, and Lisyne the wolf gathered them up and taught them how to wield it. It was Lisyne who had created the clans and given the witches their purposes.

  But that time of peace ended. In her desire to have powerful daughters, Olivia’s grandmother Lirona had pursued a shapeshifter named Abram. Her belief was that the child of a shapeshifter would be stronger than the child of a human. Abram rejected her, though, because shapeshifters did not reproduce sexually and he did not understand what she wanted. Lirona was by all accounts too proud, and she became enraged. The witches far outnumbered the shapeshifters by then, so Lirona led them into a battle which history had forgotten. All the shapeshifters were killed except Lisyne, Seryne and Tirosyne, and Lirona went on to found the country of Arido.