by Cate Tiernan
“Kithic is nothing,” he agreed, his voice like smoke rising off water. He stepped closer to me, so close I could almost touch him. “An amateurish circle of mediocre kids. But you, my dear—you are not nothing. You possess the power to devastate anything in your path—or to create unimaginable beauty.”
“No, I don’t,” I objected. “Why do you think that? I’m not even initiated—”
“You just don’t understand, do you?” he said sharply. “You don’t understand who you are, what you are. You’re the last witch of Belwicket. You’re my daughter. You’re the sgiùrs dàn.”
“The what?” I felt hysteria rising in me like nausea.
“The fated scourge. The destroyer.”
“The what?” I repeated in a squeak.
“The signs say that it’s you, Morgan,” he explained. “The destroyer comes every several generations to change the course of her clan.This time it’s you who will change the course of the Woodbanes—just as your great ancestor Rose did centuries ago. So you see, you have more power than you realize. And I simply can’t let that power be in opposition to my own. It would be... foolish of me to go against fate.”
“You’re insane,” I breathed.
He grinned then, his teeth shining whitely in the night. “No, Morgan. Ambitious, yes. Insane, no. It’s all true. Just ask the Seeker. At any rate, you won’t be around long enough for it to really matter. Either you join me now or you die.”
I stared at him, seeing a reflection of my face in his more masculine features. “You wouldn’t really kill me.” Please don’t do this, I begged silently. Please.
A look of pain crossed his face. “I don’t want to. But I will.” He sounded regretful. “I must. If I have to choose your life or mine, I’ll choose mine.”
Hearing him confirm this broke my heart. I felt a sadness in my chest like a dull weight. Any of the confused affection I had for him, any lingering hopes I had of someday, somehow having an actual relationship with the man who had fathered me dissipated. A real father would never hurt his own daughter—as a real soul mate wouldn’t have killed his lover. Ciaran was failing on all counts.
With no warning I was overtaken by a wave of rage, at his arrogance, his selfishness, his shortsightedness. He would rather kill me than know me! He would rather wipe out an entire coven than achieve his ends in other ways! He was a bully and a coward, hiding behind a dark wave that had killed countless innocent people. He was going to kill me because I—a teenager, an unschooled witch—scared him. I didn’t think before I moved. Suddenly I felt like I was on a play-ground and being picked on. I flung out my fist, catching him squarely on the shoulder. Taken by surprise, as I was, Ciaran caught my wrist in his hand, and then I was twisted down to the ground, crying out. This wasn’t magick—this was just a man who was stronger than me. But then he muttered something and I felt a horrible stillness coming over me, a remote coldness that I had felt once before, when Cal had put a binding spell on me.
Dammit! My mind raced ahead in panic as I knelt, so numb I couldn’t feel the dampness of the ground seeping through my jeans. What had I been thinking? I knew Ciaran’s true name! But instead of using it, I had lashed out like a stupid kid!
He released my hand and stepped back, looking angry and concerned. “What is this about, Morgan?” he said, sounding, ironically, quite fatherly. I couldn’t form words—it was like being under anesthesia, those scary minutes before you go totally out. My brain felt wrapped in damp cotton, synapses firing slowly and erratically. I couldn’t move; I no longer felt like I had a body. Besides sheer panic, I was now filled with anger. Could I be any stupider? Magick is all about clarity of thought. Clarity of thought dictates clarity of action. Not thinking, lashing out blindly, not having a firm plan and sticking to it, meant not only trouble—for me, now, it meant death.
I’m not one of those heroine-type people who think best under pressure. Mostly, under pressure, I just want to cry. I wanted to cry now. I was choked with frustration, with fury, with fear. Instead, I knelt on the cold ground, my father standing before me, holding my life in his hands like an egg.
“Morgan.” He sounded surprised, disappointed. “What are you thinking? Are you really going up against me? I’m much stronger than you are.”
My mouth moved, but I couldn’t form words. Then why are you so scared of me? I thought, sending him the message.
I wondered if I could just think his true name—if that would be enough to control him. I was reluctant to try. If he even knew it was in my mind, I’d be toast. I had already made one terrible, possibly fatal mistake. Anything I did from now on would have to be a sure step.
Foggily, my eyes went to Ciaran’s face. He was talking to me in a low tone, and I struggled to understand what he was saying. “Would it be so terrible to join me? Am I such a monster? I’m your father. I could teach you things that would make you cry at their beauty, their perfection. Do you really want to throw this opportunity away?”
My eyes were focused on him as he spoke. Think, think, I told myself dreamily. Think or he’ll win. A binding spell was one of the odder spells one could be under. There were different levels of it—from simply being unable to harm another being to being virtually comatose. The way I felt now was like being wrapped in many layers of tissue: hard to get out of, yet made of thin, tearable layers. I also knew that keeping me in this spell required Ciaran’s concentration. One could work a binding spell from a distance, but he hadn’t had time for that. This was a quick one, hastily put together and requiring his continued effort.
If I broke his concentration, if he for one millisecond dropped his guard, I might be able to do something. Like whimper pathetically and then fall over. Or break free. And then I was sure I could use his true name. It was just so hard to think. I could send a witch message to anyone not right next to me while I was bound. I couldn’t form the sounds of Maeve’s power chant. What could I do? What was I capable of? Starting fires was something I was good at—but everything around me seemed damp. Could I set wet leaves on fire?
Ciaran was talking, pacing back and forth, earnestly trying to convince me why black equaled white. My eyes followed him, but he didn’t look at me much: he was sure I couldn’t break free.
Fire. Heat. Heat plus dampness... made steam. Steam could be powerful. Most heavy machinery used to be run on steam. Radiators.
Then it came to me. With great effort, I slowly slid my gaze past Ciaran to the trunk of a pine tree. Heat, I thought. Heat and water. Heat. Fire. I imagined sparks, tiny flames flickering into being, fire warming bark, running beneath it.
Ciaran didn’t notice the very faint ribbon of steam coming from the tree behind him. His soliloquy continued, as if he thought that if he talked long enough, I would finally be convinced.
Heat, building beneath the pine bark. Pressure building. Cells expanding. Tiny fissures splitting wood fibers. The water in every cell evaporating, turning to steam. I lost myself in it, imagining that I could see the bark swelling, feel the fibers splitting, feel the pressure building.
Crack!
With the force of a small explosion, chunks of pine bark flew outward, hitting Ciaran, almost hitting me. He whirled, his hand outstretched, ready to deflect an attack, but it took him several seconds to see where the sound had come from. Seconds in which his concentration was weakened. In those precious seconds I made a tremendous effort and managed to work my right arm. Summoning every bit of power in me, I raised my voice to say his true name. He whirled as the notes began, my voice sounding dull and leaden under the binding spell. My right hand clumsily sketched runes in the air, and with a last breath I managed to complete it—his true name, a color and song and rune all at once. He hissed something at me, but I held up my hand and deflected it.
Teeth gritted, I said, “Take off the binding spell.”
The look of fury and horror on his face was frightening, even though I knew I had power over him.
“Take it off!”
His
arm raised against his will, and words fell from his lips. In moments I could take deep breaths, and when the spell dissolved, I fell to my hands and knees.
“Morgan, don’t make this kind of mistake,” Ciaran said softly. But he wasn’t in control anymore.
“Be quiet,” I panted, slowly standing up, rubbing feeling back into my arms and legs. The cold of the night air made me shake: I had been motionless for too long.
I looked at him, my biological father, an extremely powerful witch whom I had both reluctantly admired and truly feared. He had put a binding spell on me! He had planned to kill me, kill my friends, my family. I let my contempt show in my face as I looked at him.
“Ciaran of Amyranth,” I said, my lungs still feeling stiff, my tongue thick, “I have power over you. I have your true name, and you are bidden to do my will.” I was trying to remember the exact phrasing from various witch texts. His eyes flashed, but he stood quietly before me. “You will never hurt me again,” I said strongly. I wasn’t sure exactly how a true name worked—but I felt that pretty much anything I said went. “Do you understand?”
His lips were pressed tightly together.
“Say it,” I said, feeling unreal, giving him orders.
“I will never hurt you again.” It looked like the words were costing him.
With quick, efficient motions I put a binding spell on him, just to be safe. He stood in the darkness like a handsome mannequin, but fire was burning in his eyes and his gaze never left me. “I have your true name,” I said again for good measure. “You have no power.”
I backed away from him, feeling exhausted. My watch said 2:26 A.M. Pressing one hand against my temple, keeping my eyes open, I sent out a witch message as strongly as I knew how. Hunter. Power sink. Now. Bring your dad. I need you.
10. Alisa
“The secret of a successful dark wave is in creating its limitations. Be clear in your intent, unemotional. Act because of a calm, logical decision—not out of anger or revenge.”
— Ciaran MacEwan, Scotland, 2000
“No, no—it’s nal nithrac, not nal bithdarc,” Mr. Niall said, not bothering to hide his irritation.
I gritted my teeth. “Isn’t there a nal bithdarc in there somewhere?”
“There’s a bith dearc,” Hunter reminded me.“But not till a bit later.”
I let out a breath and sank down onto the wooden floor in front of the fireplace. It was way freaking late, I was exhausted, I had a headache, and I was kind of hungry. “Is there any cake left?” I asked.
Hunter had made a killer pound cake yesterday, and we’d all been wolfing it down in between their teaching me this wretched horrible spiteful spell. Without a word Hunter went into the kitchen and came back with a slab of cake on a plate. I picked it up with my fingers and took a bite.
Mr. Niall sat on the floor next to me and held his hands out to the fire. He looked like death warmed over, gray skinned and hollow eyed. Starting last Tuesday night, he’d been working with me on the spell to fight the dark wave. Dad and Hilary thought I was working on my science project with Mary K. I had told Dad I’d be home late, and he agreed. Another sign of Hilary’s turning my dad crazy: a year ago he’d never have let me stay out past his bedtime.
I looked at my watch: past midnight. And I had to go to school tomorrow. Thank God tomorrow was Friday. I could sleepwalk through classes, then go home and crash. Then come here and not have to worry about getting up the next morning.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to spray crumbs. “This is all new to me.”
“I know,” said Mr. Niall, rubbing the back of his head. “And this is a hard one. Most witches start with spells to keep flies away, things like that.”
“Keep flies away,” I mused. “I could probably handle something like that.”
Hunter gave a dry laugh, then headed back to the kitchen when the teakettle began whistling.
He came back with three mugs. It was hot and sweet, laced with honey and lemon. I waited till Mr. Niall had drunk his, then tiredly got to my feet. “Okay. Can we start right at the beginning of the second part, where we do the sigils?”
“Lass—” Mr. Niall hesitated. “You’ve been trying, but—”
“But what? But I keep messing up? It’s late, I’m tired, this is my first dark wave spell,” I said testily. “I know I need lots more practice. That’s why I’m here.” My jaw jutted out, and I realized that I had some pride invested here. I wanted to be able to do this. Not to look good in front of Hunter and his dad, but because I was my mother’s daughter. She’d come from a whole line of witches, yet she’d been so freaked out by her powers that she’d stripped herself of them. That seemed kind of cowardly to me. My powers scared me, too, but it seemed so wrong to give up like that. I felt like, I’m me, I’m in control of me. My powers were not in control of me. Doing the spell was a crash course in learning to channel my powers. So far it hadn’t been that successful: there had been several times when I’d been so upset or frustrated that I’d popped a lightbulb overhead, caused a stack of firewood to topple (I assumed that had been me), and made a framed picture drop off the wall.
Those were the kinds of things that had scared me about Morgan and her powers—the whole idea of her being out of control. But it hadn’t been her, and I had to live with that part of me. I needed to get it together. The weird thing was, by the time the third thing had happened (I was almost screaming in frustration after doing a whole set of sigils perfectly—but backward), Hunter and his dad started to find it funny. Funny! Stuff that had made me quit Kithic and run a mile from Morgan—made me dislike her, mistrust her. Now, after spending so many hours with me in this house, they had started making a big show of throwing out their hands to catch things—vases, lamps, mugs—every time I even raised my voice. It was like that scene in Mary Poppins where the admiral sets off his cannon and everyone runs to their posts.
“Look at yourselves,” I said, not meanly. “You guys can hardly eat, hardly sleep. The dark wave coming is draining you. I’m the picture of health next to you. This is still a good plan. Which means you still have to teach me.”
Looking defeated, Mr. Niall stood up, and we both faced west with our arms out.
“Give me the words,” he said.
Concentrating, I tried to let the spell come to me instead of reaching out to grab it. “An de allaigh, ne rith la,” I half sang. “Bant ne tier gan, ne rith la.” And so on it went, the words of limitation that were the second part of the spell. After one more phrase Mr. Niall and I started moving together, like synchronized swimmers. My right hand came out and traced three runes, then a sigil, a rune, and two more sigils. These would focus the spell and add power. Each rune stood not only for itself, but also for a word that began with its sound. Each word had meaning and added to the spell.
I crossed my arms over my chest, palms down, each hand on a shoulder. Standing tall, I continued, “Sgothrain, tal nac, nal nithrac, bogread, ne rith la.”
Ten minutes later I sounded the last part of the second stage of the spell. I wanted to drop onto the floor and sleep right there for the rest of my life. But when I looked up and saw admiration on Hunter’s face and a reserved approval on Mr. Niall’s, I felt a rush of energy.
“Was that okay?” I asked, knowing that they would have stopped me if it wasn’t.
“That was fine, Alisa,” said Mr. Niall. “That was good. If we can get the other parts down as well, we’ll be in good shape.”
I tried not to groan out loud: there were three other parts to the spell. The whole thing took almost an hour to perform.
“I felt your power,” Hunter said. “Did you feel it?”
I nodded.“Yes. It seems to be getting stronger—or maybe I’m just better at recognizing it. It’s still so new to me. Is it weird for a half witch to have power?”
Hunter shrugged. “It’s an exceedingly rare condition, right, Da?”
“Very rare. I don’t think I’ve ever met another half witch, let alone on
e that had powers,” Mr. Niall said. “I’ve heard stories—but usually a female witch can’t conceive by an ordinary male. And when a male witch conceives with a nonwitch female, their child is always relatively powerless.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. I really didn’t want to think about my parents conceiving anything.
“I wonder, though,” said Mr. Niall. “I wonder if your having powers, or this level of powers, has anything to do with your mother stripping herself of hers. Stripping yourself of powers is rather like getting plastic surgery: on the outside, you appear different, but your genes are the same. Your nose looks different, but you have the ability to pass on your old nose to your offspring. The fact that your mother stripped herself of her powers didn’t in any way mean she was no longer a blood witch, with the capability of passing her strength, her family’s strength, on to her offspring.” He frowned at me. “But you do have a high level of power, even assuming that you inherited your genetic due from your mother. Most half witches are relatively weak because they get power from only one side of the family. But you...”
“I break things,” I supplied.
Mr. Niall chuckled—a rare occurrence. “Well, there’s that, lass. No, I was getting at the fact that you seem to have as much power as a full blood witch. I wonder if it’s possible that because your mother stripped herself, her powers were somehow concentrated in you.”
Hunter looked curious. “You mean Alisa has not only her own powers as a half witch, but her mother’s powers as a full witch.”
Mr. Niall looked at me and nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “It’s something I’ve never seen before, but I suppose that’s what I mean.”
“You don’t have brothers or sisters, right, Alisa?” Hunter asked.
I shook my head. “Except for the half sibling that’s due in six months. But it wouldn’t have any witch at all.”
“It would have been interesting if you had, to see what their powers would be like,” he said.