by J. A. White
BOOK THREE
THE LAST SPELL
“There is no such thing as a good witch.”
—The Path
Final Leaf
The Well was her world. Her world was the Well.
The darkness was complete and unforgiving, a lack of light so all-consuming that Kara seemed to float in it. She saw things anyway. A crowd of people stretched across a field, hatred in their eyes. Grace tapping at her window. Taff’s body, cold and motionless.
And Simon, always Simon. Bloody and ravaged. Eyes open, accusing her.
After Kara’s throat became too hoarse to scream any more, she grew to accept the darkness. This was the way it was going to be. She was a witch. A murderer. Evil. She deserved to be punished. Perhaps she was going to be imprisoned down here forever. How long had it been already? Kara didn’t know. It might have been days. It didn’t matter. She didn’t feel hunger. She didn’t feel anything, not even the icy chill of water that rose to her chest. The walls of the well held her fast, like a vertical coffin.
She started to hear voices, not always in a language she understood. A whisper, tickling her earlobe. The steady cadence of her name, pitter-pattering into the dank water like rainfall.
There came a time when she realized she wasn’t alone.
A soft blue light hovered just above her, close enough to touch. Holding a hand over her eyes, Kara was able to make out the bird that had led her into the Thickety. It was perched on a narrow stone ledge, the blue light emanating from its single eye.
“Are you real?” Kara asked.
The bird’s eye swiveled, and the light changed to orange.
Yes.
“You can’t be,” Kara said. “The Well is covered at the top. How did you get inside?”
The light switched to a questioning mauve, blinking on and off in the darkness: How do you think?
“Magic,” Kara said, and the light changed to orange again.
Yes.
“Can you get me out of here?” Kara asked.
The light turned red.
No.
“Can you at least help me escape?”
The light remained red.
“Then why are you here?” Kara asked, her voice hoarse and unrecognizable.
The bird’s eye turned to a sullen blue that Kara recognized from their time in the Thickety. She had thought it meant sorrow, but now, as its depths and shades of meaning cut through the darkness, she realized that wasn’t quite right.
“You feel guilty,” Kara said.
The eye quickly returned to orange.
“Because you’re the one who led me to the grimoire,” Kara said.
Orange still.
“Well, what do you want? Do you want me to tell you it’s okay? Fine. I don’t blame you. You weren’t the one who made me kill Simon. I’m just evil, like everyone says I am. Just like my mother.”
The light turned red, deeper and more insistent than before.
No!
Its eye swiveled fast, eager to make its point, settling on a warm pink that instantly filled Kara with a sense of calm.
“Mother,” she said.
A flash of orange and then the bird showed her a color she had never seen before. Somewhere between black and green but neither of them, the color of pestilence and extinction and nightmares better left forgotten, a color that had been exiled from the world long ago.
It was the color of evil.
The bird’s eye flashed from pink to red to this color, and then again. Again.
Mother. No. Evil. Mother. No. Evil.
“But she was,” Kara said. “She killed her best friend and her husband. She maimed Constance.”
Red.
No.
And then the red light wasn’t a light at all but a glowing orb projecting a series of images across the interior of the Well.
Images of the past.
It took Kara a few moments to recognize the place before her as the Smythe house. Not the ruin Grace had led her to on Last Night, but freshly painted and filled with promise. Kara was seeing it from above, as though sitting in the branches of a nearby tree, and she realized that she must be seeing the bird’s memories.
Someone was sobbing.
Kara turned and saw Aunt Abby projected on the wall behind her, kneeling in the grass beside a dead man with a horrific expression marring his once-handsome face.
“What have you done?” a woman asked, out of breath from a frantic sprint across the field. Her stomach was swollen with child. “Where’s Constance?”
“Mother,” Kara said.
Kara reached out to touch her face, a faded memory suddenly bright and vivid with life, but felt only the cold stone of the Well.
Abby rose to her feet. Tears flooded her eyes but did not conceal the madness whirling within them.
She clasped the grimoire protectively to her chest.
“They tried to take it,” she said. “They said it was controlling me. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt Constance either. She’s inside. Alive. But her face. Her face . . . I just wanted to get it back, I didn’t mean . . . I couldn’t let them have it. I love him. Do you think he’ll still love me when he comes back?”
“It’s over, Abby.”
“It’s not my fault.”
Mother nodded patiently. She took a casual step in Abby’s direction. “You’re right. I should have never taught you such dangerous things. The fault is mine.” Mother held out her hands. “Give it to me.”
Abby backed away like a wounded animal.
“No,” she said, flipping open the grimoire. “I can fix this.”
Excitement pulsed in Abby’s eyes as she riffled through the spells, stopping only when she reached the last page. She smiled with childish glee.
“It’s here, Helena!” she exclaimed. “The words to bring him back!”
Mother shook her head vehemently. “It’s the Last Spell,” she said. “You know what will happen.”
“Not to me. I won’t let it.”
Kara’s mother took three quick steps and placed her hands on Abby’s shoulders. The younger woman flinched but did not pull away.
“Look at me,” said Mother.
It was a sharp, teacherly tone, and Abby responded. Without breaking eye contact, Mother spoke. “That day in the farmhouse, what was the very first thing I taught you?”
Abby spoke by rote, as though she had been asked to repeat the words a thousand times: “Do not, under any circumstances, complete a grimoire. The final page must remain unused.”
“The most important advice a witch will ever hear. Heed it now.”
“It doesn’t matter if I die.”
“You’ll wish you had.”
“He said he still loved me, even after he learned what I was. I just want to make things right.”
Mother ran a hand along Abby’s blond curls. “I know you do. But there are some things that not even magic can fix, my friend.”
With great care Mother began to tease the grimoire from Abby’s fingers, but just as the book was about to change owners, Abby snatched it back.
“Those rules might be true for you, but not me! Anything I want, my grimoire provides. I’m more powerful than you!”
“That’s what it wants you to think. Nothing is more tempting than power. The book knows that!”
“You’re jealous. You want to take it from me. Like him.”
“Enough! Don’t be a fool, Abigail! You can’t cast the Last Spell!”
“Watch me.”
Of its own accord, the grimoire flipped to the final page. Abby began to read. Mother rushed to stop her, but Abby mumbled a few words and rose high into the air. Once safely out of reach, she continued casting her spell, the words a blur of enigmatic syllables, her voice only vaguely her own.
The body of Peter Smythe spasmed slightly.
“Stop!” Mother screamed. But how could she be heard? Abby’s voice was a tornado, a hurricane, a deafening roar. The windows
of the Smythe house shattered outward, and a great crack zippered its way across the roof. Peter’s fingers began to twitch in an unnatural, jerky rhythm.
Then the bird’s eye flashed, and the images around Kara began to change. “Not yet!” she exclaimed. Though she saw nothing but chaotic colors swirling across the walls, she could still hear Aunt Abby’s screams: “What is this? I command you to release. . . . I command . . . Helena! Help me! Heeelllp!”
Kara had never heard such terror in her life.
And then the image of a bedroom, seen from the branches just outside an open window, stretched across the walls of the Well. The mattress had been thrown to the floor; on it rested Kara’s mother, motionless and unblinking, her face drained of color. An overturned tureen dripped water onto a pile of torn and bloody sheets.
Somewhere a baby was crying.
That’s Taff! Mother just gave birth!
Angry voices exploded from another part of the house.
“Fen’de Stone said no one can—”
“Let me through! Now!”
There were brief scuffling sounds, and then Father opened the door. He held a small bundle cradled in his arms.
“Please,” Mother said, and Father carefully handed her the sleeping child. She nestled the small form against her chest and squeezed his tiny hand. “They never even gave me a chance to hold him. My little Taff.”
“Taff?”
“It has a special meaning in the tongue of my people. Perhaps he’ll learn it one day.” She clutched Father’s arm. “Constance carried me here and delivered the baby all on her own. She saved our son’s life! Make sure she knows how grateful I am. And that I’m so sorry I couldn’t heal her face.”
“You can tell her yourself.”
“I couldn’t save Abby. She was too far gone. How could I have let this happen? And don’t say it wasn’t my fault, Will. I was the one who wanted to share my craft.”
“Once I speak to Fen’de Stone and explain what happened, he’ll—”
Mother looked away from the baby. Her eyes were cold.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Why not? These people trust me. They’ll listen to what I have to say.”
“Good. Then they’ll be sure to believe you when you denounce me as a witch.”
“What?”
“Tell them that you never loved me. That you were only under my spell.”
“Never!”
“Tell them that I’m guilty of all these crimes tonight—and more!”
“They’ll kill you!”
“They will kill me regardless of what you say. If you defend me, you will only incriminate yourself. Who will raise this little one, then? And what about Kara? What kind of life will she know without a father to watch over her?”
“I won’t betray you.”
“You betray me if you do not do as I ask!” Helena drew him down and tenderly kissed his lips. “Please, William. You need to do this.”
“You are my world, Helena.”
“And you mine.”
She stared into his eyes, and Kara saw something pass between them, something that had been grown and nurtured by laughter and tears and hands held by firelight—and all the other moments of a life shared together.
Father looked away first.
“You must hide the truth from them,” Mother said. “Especially from Kara. Speak only ill of me when I am gone. Make her believe I was every bit the monster people whispered about. This way, when she begins to use her powers, she’ll do so with respect for the dangers.” Mother turned her head, unwilling to share her tears. “It would be best if her greatest fear in life was becoming like me. Here.” Mother slipped something small into Father’s pocket. “You’ll know when it’s time.”
From the other side of the house came shouts and the sound of approaching footsteps. Father stepped toward the door, ready to prop it shut, but Mother shook her head. “Come, my love,” she said, patting the mattress. “Sit by my side and look at this beautiful child we made. Is this not the most extraordinary magic of all?”
The bird’s eye flickered out, and the walls grew dark.
“More!” Kara exclaimed. “Show me more!”
But there was nothing. No sign of the bird at all.
Suddenly sunlight tunneled cruelly into her sensitive eyes as the cover of the Well slid open.
A rope dangled before her.
Everyone was wrong, Kara thought as she looped it beneath her arms. Mother didn’t hurt anyone. She sacrificed herself to protect her children.
Kara touched the locket around her neck and smiled.
“Mother was good,” she said.
The rope grew taut, and Kara Westfall rose toward the beckoning day.
The graycloaks brought her to a small stable. One of the stalls had been prepared just for her, its walls reinforced and raised to the ceiling. They left her a simple brown frock and a bucket of hot water and departed. Kara heard the sound of chains being fastened on the other side of the door.
She washed herself and dressed quickly, then slept for almost two days.
When Kara awoke it was early morning. Faint beams of sunlight whispered through small holes in the stable wall. Past a narrow, barred opening in the door, she could see a small table and a chair. Fen’de Stone sat there trimming his fingernails with a penknife. Twin lenses encased in a thin metal frame dangled from the edge of his nose. Kara had heard talk of this kind of World magic, portable mirrors called “spectacles” that improved one’s eyesight instead of casting a reflection.
Behind Fen’de Stone stood two graycloaks.
“My brother,” Kara said. Her voice was a dry rasp. “Does he live?”
The fen’de nodded toward one of the guards, who produced a metal cup from beneath the folds of his cloak and filled it with water from his canteen. He passed the cup through the bars to Kara. She longed to throw it in his face, but her thirst was greater than her pride; she swallowed the water in three gulps. It was rusty and warm and the best thing she had ever tasted.
“My brother,” she repeated.
“He lives,” replied the fen’de. “But he’s in a bad way, that poor child. Head swollen, the fever with him always. Doctor Mather, dedicated soul, has been at him with his leeches every day, but Taff’s condition only grows worse. It’s a baffling situation.”
Kara felt her lower lip start to tremble and bit it viciously, nearly drawing blood. I will not cry in front of this man. Ever.
“It is such a relief to have you here, Kara,” Fen’de Stone said. “To know that you’re just like your mother. All these years, I knew that nightseeker was wrong. And I was right. I . . . was . . . right!” The fen’de leaned back, and his seat groaned beneath the weight. “Excuse the excessive pride, but I can’t help feeling a trifle satisfied with myself right now.”
“I’m very happy for you.”
“Did you bewitch that useless beast so it couldn’t identify you? And the death of Bailey Riddle—was that your doing? I suspected witchcraft, but—”
“I had nothing to do with it. I was only a child.”
“You’re still a child, Kara. And yet the things you can do! What you did to Simon Loder—it’s quite a story my daughter tells.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Fen’de Stone paused and studied her for a moment, his expression perplexed. He expected the Well to break me. He expected a docile girl begging for forgiveness.
She was glad to disappoint him.
“Kara Westfall,” he finally said. His voice was now measured and formal. “You have been accused of the most serious violation of the Clen’s teachings: witchcraft. In addition, an eyewitness of the highest moral caliber has seen you use these dark powers to take the life of another. How do you plead?”
Kara was tempted to concede. All she had to do was say “guilty” and her fate would be sealed. No more anger. No more pain.
But what would become of Taff? He would die without her help.
&
nbsp; “I do not know any witchcraft,” Kara said. “I am a Child of the Fold. I walk in the footsteps of the Clen.”
Kara stared proudly through the bars of the door, daring the fen’de to claim otherwise.
He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
“You’re not going to make this difficult, are you?”
“You asked a question. I answered it. Who’s being difficult?”
Fen’de Stone snapped his fingers, and one of the graycloaks handed him an ancient-looking red tome. The fen’de spread it across the table.
“This is my greatest treasure,” he said. “A book older than even the Path. It was written by Abel Sanderson, one of Timoth Clen’s greatest lieutenants. A man renowned for his bravery on the battlefield but also for a . . . shall we say, talent to convince witches to tell the truth. This is a guidebook of sorts. It’s all in here, every technique. The Twisting Stick. The Melting Blade. The Screaming Collar. Which shall we start with, Kara? Do you have a preference?” He closed the book. “Or perhaps I’ll just flip it open and choose at random.”
Kara looked deep into his eyes and knew that he was not bluffing. She glanced through the bars and gasped at the illustration before her. If there had been any food in her stomach, she might have been ill on the spot.
“What do you want to know?” Kara asked.
Smiling, Fen’de Stone closed the tome and pulled out a smaller book. He removed a quill and black inkpot, brushed a hand across a new page.
“I have to document everything,” he said. “So those fools in the World believe me. They didn’t about your mother, you know. Said I was making it up to try to make my little cult seem relevant again.” He straightened his spectacles. “Tell me what happened at the old Smythe farm. In your own words.”
“Simon Loder was going to kill Taff. I stopped him.”