The Five-Petal Knot (The Witching World Book 2)

by Lucia Ashta

  Marcelo and I looked at each other, relief scrawled across our faces.

  Mordecai was back, alive.

  Then two horses swept out of the broken gate and began their swift trek down the mountain. Marcelo and I stopped our progress to wait for their arrival. The few steps we could take until they arrived wouldn’t amount to much.

  By the time we reached the courtyard atop the horses, exhaustion had taken deep root in both of us. We weren’t even capable of the depth of grief that would come later.

  Devastation was everywhere in the courtyard we’d shared for a peaceful moment less than a day ago. Even the memory of it seemed marred by melancholy.

  The carcasses of black elephants and dogs were everywhere, no less sad because they were the corpses of the enemy. Those that survived left when Marcelo allowed them the chance. Any that remained behind were now dead.

  The forces of Irele had vanquished the enemy, at least for now, but at a terrible price.

  All the worms were dead in gruesome fashion, cut open to reveal intricate innards that belied the simplicity of their outer shells. The Rondels were lifeless again, their individual pieces trampled and spread across the courtyard through the natural waves of battle.

  Several of the gargantuan rabbits and wolves had fallen, and the ones that survived stood united now as they’d been in fighting. They continued to set their differences aside to honor their dead.

  A group of gargoyles nursed their injuries. None had died; they were made of hearty stone. But all of them sustained some kind of trauma.

  The largest gathering of the standing consisted of elves and dwarves. The elves looked pristine and unharmed, their bows still gripped at their sides. But the dwarves were devastated. They were all bloody and gore-covered from battle. Battle-axes lay on the ground, thrown there without a care, a symbol of the heavy price that comes from war.

  These warriors didn’t care about their victory. The price for war was always great, and it was never worth the cost.

  Two dwarves lay among the bodies of elephants and worms. A female dwarf and a male dwarf had been victims to the hatred and irrationality of darkness. Ancient creatures, these two would never breathe again.

  I watched as an elf raised his clean arm and placed it on the blood-splattered shoulder of a dwarf. In place of the aggressive reactions toward the elves I’d witnessed in the dwarves before, this dwarf leaned into the elf for support. From behind, I could see his shoulders begin to shake with grief and loss against the elf’s chest.

  The only one who stood apart was Janice. Her face was inscrutable. Whether she felt the emotion the rest of us did or not, I couldn’t tell. She looked much as she had before the elephants broke through the gate: a blonde-haired, innocent-looking girl in a pretty blue dress and up-braided hair. The only difference was that now blood stained her clothes and her stockings. When she took a few tentative steps toward us, blood squished out of her shoes.

  I could barely stand the casualties. The losses had been too many. What purpose did the dark have in attacking us that would be worth this?

  Mordecai looked fragile and old. I’d never seen even a glimpse of this in him before. His brother lay on the ground, covered in his cloak. Pointed leather shoes peaked out from beneath the charcoal cloak, screaming at all of us that death couldn’t be hidden or forgotten no matter how we tried to cover it up. A human being lay beneath that cloak, a human being that would be no longer.

  Despite his devastation, Mordecai spoke to all of us, proving he was still capable of leadership. “Let’s put the dead to rest, ours and theirs.”

  The dwarves began to object, when Mordecai silenced them. “Their dead were pawns of dark magic, nothing more. Their free will was robbed from them long ago. They deserve peace now.”

  No one said anything more after that and the procession began. Mordecai, Marcelo, and Robert lifted all the dead creatures, including Albacus and the Count of Bundry, and carried them toward an exit from the courtyard I hadn’t noticed before. Even the massive elephants floated along with ease, finding grace in death where they had none in life.

  The survivors intermingled with the dead as we made our progress toward a small family graveyard. Mordecai led us past it, further down the hill. At its bottom, he moved the earth, uprooting small plants and a young tree. When he was finished, a large pit lay open, ready to receive.

  One by one, Mordecai transferred the bodies of every elephant and beastly dog into the pit. He laid them side by side. When they filled the pit, from one edge to the other, Mordecai lifted the removed dirt into the air and moved it back to fill the spot. At its finish, the ground looked as if he’d never disturbed it at all. Quietly, it would process the dead beneath it. In death, the enemy’s darkness was gone.

  Mordecai retraced his steps, leading us back toward the family cemetery. Short of it, he stopped again. There he dug one grave for the Rondels and one for the worms. He lowered them into the graves and covered them.

  Then he dug individual graves for every one of the soldiers that had lost their lives in defense of freedom and magic. He dug a grave for each of the dwarves, for each of the rabbits, and for each of the wolves. He brought them to their resting places as gently as if they were still alive. He covered the graves, the low sobs of dwarves sounding with each movement of dirt.

  Mordecai looked at Marcelo, who nodded, almost imperceptibly; but I saw it. Mordecai moved up enough to clear the graves he’d just closed, and, in the new spot, he dug another grave. This one was for Marcelo’s father. I watched Marcelo closely as Mordecai lowered the man he’d never really known into the pit, along with Marcelo’s sword. Marcelo wanted his Oedipal sword to be buried along with the Count of Bundry in hopes that it would take all memories of patricide with it.

  Marcelo’s face was impassive as Mordecai moved the earth to contain his father, now an empty shell, free of the darkness that consumed him while he was alive.

  Mordecai’s next steps were stumbled. He staggered back up the hill, and Marcelo reached out to support the man who was his true father. Together, father and son walked through the gate that marked the beginning of the family cemetery, and they made their way to an empty spot beneath a tree more ancient than Albacus.

  With silent heaving cries, Mordecai unearthed a grave for his brother, next to his mother and father’s. Mordecai moved to the hovering figure he knew so well. He removed a necklace from his brother’s neck and slid it around his own; he tucked it beneath his cloak and within his robes. Then he kissed his brother on the forehead one last time.

  He began to move Albacus’ body toward the grave, but brought it back in response to now audible, devastating sobs. Mordecai reached his hands toward Albacus’ and squeezed. He could not let his brother go. He didn’t know how. They shared centuries of daily life together. They were a part of each other.

  Marcelo stepped in.

  With heart-wrenching tenderness, he uncurled Mordecai’s hands from his brother’s and gave him his own to hold. Mordecai squeezed Marcelo’s hands as if that effort alone could bring his brother back to life.

  But Mordecai forced himself to accept that a part of him was now dead.

  He thought his heart would surely break in two as Marcelo moved Albacus’ body to its final resting place.

  Marcelo never moved his hands from Mordecai’s. He was the one who lived and needed all of his support.

  Though Marcelo’s eyes never left the face of his mentor, he set Albacus’ body into its final resting place with precision. Not a bead on the old man’s beard rustled. His body was still through and through. Nothing but peace could have any effect on him now.

  “May I cover the grave, Mordecai?” Marcelo asked, staring at Mordecai with searching eyes.

  Mordecai didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to say that Marcelo should close his brother’s grave. It made it too real, too final, too soul-crushingly hideous.

  But he didn’t say no either and, eventually, Marcelo covered the hole in th
e ground with as much grace as he’d laid the body within it. When he was finished, he moved a small tree to cover the spot. When Mordecai looked toward his brother’s grave, the tree bloomed with magnificent flowers. The sweet scent of fresh flowers mixed with the smell of upturned earth; it began already to heal painful memories and to fill the gaping void left by such great loss.

  In the lightening night, the flowers were violet. It was the color of magic. But then, in the end, all colors were magic.

  Everything was magic in the whole, big world.

  Chapter 55

  Our progress back up the hill and into the courtyard was slow. Steps were small and labored, more from sorrow than exhaustion, though both were visibly present.

  Sylvia flew ahead, and I never thought I’d be so grateful for her magic and thoughtfulness toward her master. By the time our entourage returned to the courtyard, the cobblestones were aflame. Sparkling blue and orange fire covered every stone and speck of dirt marred by signs of battle.

  We stayed back, every one of us surprised. We watched grace spring from horror.

  The flames danced and grew in their beauty as we admired them. They were magical flames, and they took with them every piece of darkness that lived and died there that night. They consumed every drop of blood and every bit of gore.

  When the flames finally weakened, their jobs complete, they extinguished with a meaningful look from the firedrake. The fire was gone, and so was any evidence of battle. What remained was polished stone and fresh earth, where the shoots of springtime were visible once more, surviving the heat of the flames in a contradiction that no one there needed explained.

  Sylvia flew to her master and settled on his shoulder. She folded in her wings and nuzzled his face. Mordecai drew on the strength of magician friend and firedrake as he crossed the courtyard and went to stand at the gate. I followed with Sir Lancelot on my shoulder, the pygmy owl content not to have to fly anymore. He’d flown more this night than he had over a hundred years.

  “Go now, my friends. Return to your homes within the castle to mourn your dead and regain your strength. You’ve fought valiantly, and I honor you and your spirits,” Mordecai said with surprising strength. Tears welled in his eyes now, not from grief, but from pride in the efforts of his friends.

  No one was without sacrifice, yet no one had shirked his duties. If there were less reason for sadness, there would be more reason for congratulation. As it was, the line of heroes that trudged back into the castle, led by Robert, was a doleful sight. Once-sworn enemies continued to support each other as they disappeared through the castle’s front door. It closed heavily and with a thud of finality behind them.

  The battle was over. It had come to an end. However bitter its results, the fear and anxiety of the looming threat was no longer.

  At least for now. Until Count Washur prepared to attack us again, something we already realized he’d do.

  Mordecai stepped through the gate to survey the beautiful mountainside of Irele. Jagged rocks and rushing waterfalls, filled with the thaw of winter, rose to meet his appraising gaze.

  Marcelo and I followed. With eyes ready to see beauty, there was much to be seen. The sky began to tinge with color, highlighting flowers poised to unfurl with the first rays of sunlight. Birds chirped happily, eager to begin another day.

  The birds faced danger every day, from circumstances and natural enemies. Unlike us, however, the birds let any fear go on the flutter of an open wing. Fear didn’t drive their actions. They greeted each new day with their most melodic song, and they blessed any able to hear with hope and enthusiasm.

  As we stood atop the mountain, with the Castle of Irele looming toward the skies behind us, we knew we’d need to do as the birds. If this night taught us anything, it was that life was fleeting. It always is whether we recognize its nature or not. A life in fear of darkness is little better than a life victim to darkness.

  The only true way to live is with an open heart.

  With hearts as open as we could manage, two wizards, a witch, a firedrake, and one pygmy owl turned to face the sunrise.

  When the sun peeked above the neighboring mountains and discovered its waiting audience, it rewarded us with an explosion of brilliance. There was nothing but light, bright, brilliant, all-powerful light. And even Mordecai smiled at the show.

  Where I looked for it, I’d always find beauty. Where I looked with love, I’d always find it returned. Where I had hope, I’d always find reason for it.

  The Merqueen

  Clara and Marcelo’s adventures continue in The Merqueen, Book 3 of The Witching World series.

  Turn the page for a preview of The Merqueen!

  The Merqueen Preview

  Chapter 1

  “Close the door before he gets out!” Mordecai shouted.

  I didn’t know who he was, but I spun to shut the door as quickly as I could.

  I whirled back around to seek out Mordecai, but found the satyr, the one I’d been outside avoiding, instead.

  The satyr’s hooves slipped on the wood and the brass handle as he tried to open the door.

  When his attention turned to me, he abandoned his attempt at escape. “Hello there, deary.”

  His voice disturbed me more than the face behind it. I flattened myself against the door, and he pinned me to it. He lifted his arm above his head and leaned in. It was a disturbing act of seduction.

  “Ugh.” The stench pressed me even farther against the door. Carvings and knobs bit into my back. “You smell awful.”

  The satyr threw his head back and laughed, assaulting my nostrils with putrid breath. I caught a flash of yellow, pointed teeth before he snapped his jaw shut.

  “It’s the scent of desire. And you can’t resist it. No woman can.” His words hissed through barely parted lips.

  If this was desire, then I hoped never to desire another thing in my life. I flicked frantic eyes around his furry head, searching for Marcelo or Mordecai, anyone who could help me—even the butler Robert would have been great just then.

  But Mordecai was at the end of the entry hall, consoling the maiden the satyr had tormented for centuries while they were trapped within their tapestry. The maiden, folded in on herself in her trauma and grief, sat in a chair, sobbing. Mordecai hovered over her, apparently looking for a way to comfort the girl and finding none.

  The maiden held her face in her hands. Soft blond hair fell forward, shielding her from the satyr’s red eyes, the ones that had considered her their prey for an eternity in thread. Her shoulders trembled even beneath the cloak Mordecai had given her to conceal her nudity.

  As with much in Irele Castle, the art wasn’t as it seemed. When I’d first arrived, I’d assumed the tapestries and paintings here behaved as normal art did, which is to say, they didn’t behave or misbehave at all.

  But as was the way with the castle, its art turned out to be just as dangerous and volatile as the rest of it. The tapestries and paintings were as much prisons as they were art. Their subjects were alive, and could step out from the art under certain circumstances. The “certain circumstances” were hazy to me. No one had bothered to explain how it was that seemingly all the creatures in the art in this castle—and tapestries and paintings lined its every wall—had escaped it.

  The maiden was wailing with enough lament to convince me that the satyr had been able to torment her all the while she was a captive of the tapestry. And I’d witnessed Sir Lancelot fly from his painting, the one in the dining room, when Marcelo uttered the spell to release him from it.

  Of all the creatures that walked, flew, cried, and otherwise contributed to the bedlam that currently overwhelmed the interior of Irele Castle, Sir Lancelot was the only one I didn’t want returned to the art. I didn’t want the maiden restored to a threaded prison with the satyr, but surely there were other solutions, ones that removed her from his smelly, hideous, red-eyed torment and still restored her to where she belonged.

  If we didn’t find a way to
contain the pandemonium soon, the sanity of all the magicians here, a group of which I now considered myself part, was at peril. There was only so much magic I could do before succumbing to the inevitable conclusion that I was a witch. My family was better off believing me dead. Irele Castle was my home now; I had no other place to go.

  I looked around, beyond the head of the demonic satyr. My eyes watered at the foulness of his breath. How long had he been trapped in that tapestry? And who’d trapped him in it? Probably one of Mordecai’s ancestors. I wished someone had bothered to leave the satyr some kind of tooth powder or rinse.

  The satyr leaned farther into me and breathed hotly against my neck. With near desperation, I struggled to look around his giant head.

  Where was Marcelo? He didn’t usually forget about me. He’d almost lost me to the castle’s tricks when I fell captive to the merworld, then he almost lost me to the nephew he’d believed dead. My safety was one of his constant preoccupations. But even he was nowhere among the shadows that danced across the cold stone walls, illuminated only by the low flames of enchanted candles.

  “Mor—” I didn’t manage to call out for Mordecai before the satyr pressed against me hard, pushing against my lungs, making breathing difficult.

  Fur rubbed the insides of my arms. I swung alarmed eyes back toward the beast that seemed ready to swallow me up. No help was forthcoming. My stomach clenched against the satyr’s ugliness.

  A low growl of a laugh rose from deep within that well of depravity. It bounced off the walls of the satyr’s body before oozing out, trying to envelope me, thinking nothing could stand in its way. I was just another maiden that would relent and become his prey.

  A horn scraped my forehead. Fur trailed against my cheek.

  The satyr extended a long, rough tongue and licked my earlobe.

  It was a violation greater than I was willing to stand. I didn’t care that I couldn’t control what happened when I called on the elements to do magic. I didn’t care that I could hurt the beast or cause damage to the castle. I didn’t care that Mordecai was too preoccupied with the death of his brother to pay attention like he usually did, that I was going to do magic with him only fifty feet away when I was the one who didn’t know what I was doing and he did.