At this, Helden expressed her confusion in a series of sobs, and by grabbing Grelda’s clothing.
Grelda bared her teeth at me, but then took the young witch, of whom she was obviously fond, away from the devastation of the village to talk.
As soon as they were a distance away, I folded my arms, turned my back, and let a few of my own tears escape. How many had been killed this time? Two hundred, maybe more? Only two women left alive in an entire village—and to the world, it would probably seem that human witch hunters had exterminated a nest of devil-worshipping monsters.
The stench of burned flesh, of ruined wood and earth, hung thick in the air. Perhaps the hag was right. Who was I to take on a creature capable of this level of evil? I had power, true. And training and skill. But how could I defeat a being I couldn’t even find, much less understand?
Grelda’s voice rose, as did Helden’s. I did my best to ignore the words, to leave them their privacy, but I knew what was happening. Grelda was explaining to the young witch that she should accompany me onto the Path, to a different Sanctuary, where she would have a better chance of survival. Now that Nire had broken through my protections and located Trier, no witch in this time period would be completely safe. The Shadows could return at any moment for another attack, or the Shadowmaster could appear and enslave them. I wasn’t strong enough to re-seal connections Nire had shattered and spelled.
My fists clenched, seemingly of their own accord, as Helden wailed. She had just lost everyone she knew and loved, and she had just learned that Grelda could not go with her. Because of Nire’s dark magic, a second trip onto the Path would mean Grelda’s death. No one but me, and perhaps the Shadowalker, could survive two exposures to Nire’s evil spells without having our life forces drained.
“I will not leave you!” the girl cried, loud enough to hurt my sensitive ears.
And then once more, the two were whispering. Grelda’s tone sounded commanding, definite, and harsh.
By the goddess. My heart ached. Sometimes I thought it would be better if I abdicated, or died in one of Nire’s massacres. At least I would never have to know this bitter misery again.
Some minutes later, Grelda presented Helden to me, and I took the girl’s arm.
“Come,” I said as gently as I could. “I’ll take you to Shallym with me. It’s an earlier time, and it will be strange to you, but—”
“She will go,” said Grelda in a low, menacing whisper. “Take her now, before it is too late.”
I took a slow breath to steady myself, then met the hag’s eyes. Her hag-spirit, now a sinewy black cat, lay tense and watching in her arms. “What will you do, Grelda? Where in this time will you go?”
She shrugged and broke my gaze. “There are oldeFolke, and perhaps other villages who will have me. Somewhere far away from Trier.”
Arguing would be pointless, as would asking her for definite plans so that I could check on her and offer what protection I could. Hags were proud, and could be deadly if that pride were trampled.
Instead, I gave her a formal half-bow of respect, and took charge of Helden.
Grelda returned the bow, but still would not look at me. Her judgment of my worth was clear, and I couldn’t say I blamed her.
The girl and I turned away, toward the Path, and I carefully opened the bonds, steeling myself the assault of poisonous darkness. With Helden’s arm in mine, lending what strength I could to her, I escorted her onto the ribbon of energy.
We hesitated only briefly as I raised one hand to close the Path.
At that second, Grelda flung herself inside, screaming along with her hag-spirit. I was too stunned to move.
What was she thinking?
Tears streaming, Grelda reached for Helden. Helden reached for her with her free hand, but they never made contact.
Grelda howled and fell to her knees, already gasping and clutching at her chest. Screaming, Helden tried to kneel beside her, hut I held the girl back even as I sealed the Path behind us. I had to get Helden to Shallym, get her off the Path as fast as possible. There was nothing I could do for Grelda, no matter what my heart urged.
As I dragged Helden with me, Grelda writhed. A pale white light rushed out of her skin, and her hag-spirit exploded with a miserable whimper. Seconds later, Grelda faded into a dark outline of herself, then melted into the shadowy cloud infesting the Path walls.
Helden sobbed without cease as I managed to haul her into Shallym and seal the Path. The poor girl cried all the way to the village, and she sobbed outside a hut during the entire time I negotiated with the smallest hag clan to take her in as one of them. I spoke eloquently of Grelda’s courage and her love for the fledgling witch. Helden could never be hag by birth, of course, but she could certainly become a hag in her heart, by Grelda’s judgment.
This seemed to suffice for the clan leader, and she sent her sisters and their hag-spirits to collect the wailing girl outside.
As I left, Helden’s eyes followed me, along with the rest of the hags. Their gazes seemed to be accusing me of weakness I couldn’t deny.
By the time I got back to Shadowbridge, I was heartsick and weary. The morning was yet fresh, but I didn’t think I could enjoy it. I also didn’t think I could abide breakfast or Bren’s boundless energy. Nor could I tolerate the thought of coming upon him asleep, having to touch the muscled curve of his shoulder to wake him—no.
Not in this terrible hour of yet another failure, when it seemed night should hold me captive forever.
Were it anyone else I needed to wake, I would have nudged his thoughts, but Bren had resisted my mind-touch in the village yesterday. In fact, he shoved me out so hard I quite nearly fell on my backside. I felt certain he realized what he had done, accident or not. No doubt he would practice that skill and use it to shut me out evermore.
And so, Bren was Rol’s problem. At least for the moment.
I ventured into Rol’s room only long enough to give him news of the destruction of Trier and tell him to take charge of Bren for now. Then, I waited behind my door until I heard the training master greet Bren by dousing him with a pail of water.
The boy’s shouts would have roused a deaf slither.
Once I was certain Rol had Bren well in hand, I crept through Shadowbridge and hid myself in the drawing room. The easternmost window offered a brilliant view of the new morning sun. As I leaned against the sill, the surge of clean light felt warm on my skin.
So little felt clean and fresh in my life anymore. So little felt hopeful. At least I had these quiet moments in my stronghold. Wherever I was along the Path, I could remember these quiet, sunlit hours when I had time to reflect. To remember what it was like to dream of the future, and not to worry.
Had I ever not worried?
I sighed and drew a yellow ribbon in the air. It coalesced and glittered, as if waiting for me to add colors or shapes. One at a time, I formed bubbles and added them. Sanctuaries. Havens. I had been drawing the Path for as long as it had been created.
Father taught me. Part fun, part lesson. When you were the only child of the King of Witches, there was little time to be carefree. That’s why I had no grand history of romantic attachments or social events, as Bren no doubt could boast.
As soon as I could move my fingers, I had been in training to be the most powerful witch on the planet. From Father, I took my skill. But my strength—that came from Mother, along with an abiding knowledge of our history and my purpose. I was to be a queen. I had to act the role at every moment. By the time I was eleven years of age, I could escort a new refugee to Father’s Path of Shadows without a single breach of manners, whether they were human, oldeFolke, or anything in between.
The ribbon I had drawn twinkled in the air. The bubbles looked secure and inviting—golden, even. For that was a golden time. Father had been instrumental in making peace with the older creatures of Earth, those time and tradition had forgotten or all but destroyed. Hags, elves, klatch witches, and beings we couldn’t name or un
derstand—even nearly extinct creatures like slithers—had been brought back from the sharp edge of oblivion thanks to the Path. They could escape endless hunting by humans, and the simple exhaustion of always being prey.
Then, Father had prevailed upon human witches to stop being afraid of their more powerful olde ancestors, and he had convinced those ancestors not to use their powers for unfair advantage. It was a splendid achievement, even if Mother and many other cautious human-born witches believed he was making a mistake, trusting the oldeFolke.
Most of us thought he was a genius.
I traced the floating ribbon with one finger.
The oldeFolke were frightening, often odd—but they made such contributions. And then came Nire. The Shadowmaster. Unquestionably oldeFolke, unquestionably powerful. Horribly powerful. But we had learned from defecting hags like Grelda that Nire hated witches and oldeFolke alike. Nire hunted us all, even in our Sanctuaries.
Frowning, I drew a black X-mark on the Path. Dead center, blocking its golden flow.
We knew nothing tangible of Nire’s true identity. The hags and klatch witches who fled had never seen the Shadowmaster, only sensed the presence and followed commands issued by minions. We had no idea where Nire came from or where the Shadowmaster’s stronghold might be located. We didn’t even know how such a creature broke into the Path.
As far as we knew, Father and I were the only witches capable of freely crossing on and off the Path. Other witches had to use Father’s and my magic to push through the ribbon of energy and for release into the Sanctuaries. But Father and I had never escorted anything like Nire into our safehavens.
And that was before Nire fouled the Path’s energy with dark magic, binding many entrances and exits. Sealing off the flow of energy and calling out the Shadows to pollute all they could touch.
Following the will of my mind, the X-mark on my drawn Path radiated darkness. A cloud filled the ribbon, and gray and black bands slowly extended around the Sanctuary bubbles, one at a time. Only a few remained untouched, like Shallym. The rest were invaded, broken, unsafe, or destroyed like Trier. The violated, clouded Sanctuaries hovered there, taunting me, until I waved my hands and blew the picture away.
Had Alderon succeeded in crossing the barrier and leaving the Path? No, that was ridiculous. No doubt Alderon became one of the Shadows like Grelda, just after he attempted to leave—as he well deserved.
Of course I knew I shouldn’t wish ill on anyone. The Goddess taught that everything you wish upon another being will come back upon you threefold.
I sighed again.
The dawn was to be my respite, and I was spoiling it with worry, as usual. Why could I not think of my childhood or my old hobbies? Riding branches and horses, creating sculptures of air and leaves to amuse my father, showing off new spells to my mother—even changing Rol into various creatures. With his consent. Most of the time.
Once I turned Rol into a toad and had to spend three days hunting him. “A lesson,” he said, laughing as I changed him back. “A lesson in taking care what you wish for.” I had missed him terribly. Mother and Father were so busy, and Rol—it was Rol who had the patience and time for me. Even the patience to be a frog to enhance my training.
All of that seemed so distant now. And foolish.
My eyes burned, and I rubbed them. Before I had left for Trier, I had barely slept, thinking of Bren’s smile. Remembering his unkempt brown hair, his stubbled cheeks, and the look in his eyes when he touched my face. He had such power inside him, and his emotions ran so strong that I felt like I could grab them and hold them. Maybe even hold him.
No!
The image of smoldering, ruined Trier intruded on my irresponsible thoughts. I had no time to waste on such ridiculous thoughts.
Why did I help Bren learn how to shut me out of his mind? What did that touch mean, the day before? What was he thinking?
By the Goddess. This childish obsession was enough to turn my stomach. Weakness. Weakness! Mother was right. I had so much to overcome.
And how could I even care about such trivia when Mother was still missing? My aunts, my cousins—every soul still living on the Path, plus all of Nire’s hostages, were counting on me. Just because some ancient oldeFolke said the Shadowalker and I would join hearts. Honestly. I could die tomorrow, and some other witch might see Bren through this quest.
If his soul is good,
If she trains him true,
If their hearts be joined…
Bren’s heart, bound to someone else. That thought sat queer in my belly. I frowned, and the drawing room door burst open.
I whirled around.
Bren stomped in, dressed in his unlaced tunic and brown leather breeches. He had a furious expression, a thick slice of toast in his fist, and wet hair still dripping from Rol’s wake-up visit.
“What the—” he sputtered, then seemed to gather himself. “You told him to drown me, didn’t you? And we had a date. You owe me some answers.”
I couldn’t help it. I smiled.
Rol chose that moment to stumble in. “My apologies, Your Highness. He said he had to relieve himself and stole away from the training yard—through the kitchen, I see.”
Laughter rolled out before I could stop it. I covered my mouth but could not cease giggling.
Bren glared. Rol stared.
“Let him stay for now.” I waved Rol away. “Go and ready the yard before you fetch him. Come back straightaway, though. I suspect he needs much sword work.”
Rol nodded, and his mouth puckered. I sensed the training master was more annoyed than confused. And perhaps a bit worried. Rol always became surly when he worried. Without another word, he bowed and left the drawing room.
Bren crammed the last bite of his apparently stolen toast into his mouth and sat on a small couch near the window. I took my favorite bench, still within arm’s reach, and studied his rumpled hair and crumb-covered face. His strong jaw was clear of stubble but at least half a dozen nicks marred his now clean-shaven features. Obviously using Rol’s shaving kit would take the boy some getting used to.
After a second, he stopped chewing. “Wha’?” he asked around the toast.
“Nothing,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat. Drawing a deep breath, I struggled back to calmness before adding, “I hope your breakfast was pleasing.”
Bren wiped his mouth on his hand and nodded. “Slept pretty good, too, except for the nightmares. Especially the one about my dad stringing me up by my toes.”
His words had a caustic edge, but I could scarcely blame him. My gaze dropped to my nails, and I picked at the black paint before forcing myself to look up again. “Is your father the angry sort?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Bren shrugged. “Mr. Perfection. All he sees are my mistakes, so this stolen-truck-disappearance routine’s really going to rack up some points.”
‘‘I’m truly sorry.” I leaned forward and placed my hand on his. Crumbs tickled my palms, and it was all I could do not to conjure a vat of water and plunge Bren’s fingers in for a good cleaning. “My mother—she—well, I understand what you must go through with a parent like that. If there were any other way…”
I squeezed his fingers. “Bren, do you understand what your presence here means?”
He shook his head, staring at my hand.
Embarrassed, I pulled away and fought the almost killing urge to wipe my hand where the crumbs had touched me. “The Path of Shadows—without it, witches have no future. My father was a visionary, and wise enough to see this. To create the Path, he used his special royal strength, a strength born of centuries of breeding for the most powerful magic.”
Grasping my seat cushion, I leaned forward as I spoke. “Father’s creation worked. The Path was saving us, human witch and oldeFolke alike.” I frowned and that familiar ache twisted in my belly. “Until Nire. The Shadowmaster invaded the energy and used dark spells to bind the Path. Since then, our Sanctuaries have become hunting grounds for evil.”
Br
en frowned as if thinking about some remembered dream. He seemed to consider saying something, then crammed his hand in his pocket, hesitated, and shrugged. “So? I mean, you’re all witches, right? So you can’t really get hurt or die, can you?”
“I assure you, we’re as mortal and frail as the unconverted.” I drew back and clenched my hands in my lap. “Even after witches are fully aware of their own powers, they live the lifespan of their species, and face the same diseases, the same risks. And the same vulnerability to murder and massacre.”
A flash of rage singed my insides, and my back stiffened. Thoughts of the Shadowmaster, of the horrors perpetrated by Nire’s minions, always stabbed at my soul.
Bren kept his eyes on my hands without comment, but started pulling at a loose thread on his tunic. I could tell he was listening. Perhaps not believing a word I spoke, but at least he saw fit to give me his attention.
“Nire raids the Sanctuaries at will,” I said. “Stealing witches, killing them, holding them hostage. And the Shadows—lost souls who can’t find a way to the afterlife—they were already difficult to manage along the Path, but now they’re murderous.”
Bren’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes moved from my hands and darted here and there, as if I were now boring him.
A spark of anger ignited in the pit of my chest. I curled my fingers into my palms to keep from using them to hex him. “Nire won’t stop with us, with our world. Once witches have all perished, Nire will come for the non-witching world, too. Humans and unconverted humans like you. Nire intends to take the planet for the Shadows.”
“Is this Nire some kind of Hitler?” Bren settled back in his seat, finally bringing his gaze to mine. “The bastard goes around killing people and witches just because they’re different from some ideal?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Jeez.” He scowled and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Even here there’s intolerance. Can’t people just get along?”
“Bren.” I leaned forward again as his attention turned back to me. “Unless you help me defeat Nire, we will all die. Witches and humans alike.”
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