“Whatever.” A sense of unease nagged at me as I kicked at the dark soil with my boot. “Rol, has Jazz actually killed? People, I mean.”
Rol wrinkled his forehead and looked thoughtful. “Jasmina is so very powerful. Centuries of breeding stand behind the queen. The strongest magical blood runs through her veins. Her threats have been sufficient enough so far, but I have never doubted she would kill, if need be—or if she were angered to such a point.”
Relief poured through me. At least she wasn’t a murderer—yet, anyway. I had a strong feeling she’d been way tempted with me.
My stomach growled. “Hey, I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat around Jazz. Can we just grab something from the kitchen and eat out here?”
“Aye.” Rol grinned and clapped me on my back with his huge palm, nearly pitching me head first into the rain barrel. “It is most unbelievable to think the queen has met her match.”
***
Chapter Twelve
There was nothing left in the drawing room but the bench beneath my favorite window. Even the cushions on it were gone.
My fingers ached from the work. My wrists felt like I had plunged them into dull fire and knives. And my head—that same pounding behind my eyes. As if something wished to crawl out of my skull.
Turning Bren into a donkey had been wrong. Cowardly, even, but I’d fling myself into the Shadows before I told him that. Still, I couldn’t allow such lapses in judgment in the future. No more using magic against the Shadowalker. Period. I was making that vow to myself, for his sake, and for my own.
And because I was not a bully.
What was wrong with me? Was I losing my sanity?
Mother always said if I didn’t keep to the highest training standard, my “weak blood,” the blood she was so sure came from my ever-careless father, would win. I would disappoint her and let the kingdom down like he did, when he admitted the oldeFolke to the path. And when he tried to reason with the insane people in Middle Salem.
Pictures flashed through my mind as I sat on the floor and hugged my knees.
I could still see Father, with his affable grin and loose white shirt, meeting with the witches of Middle Salem, the Salem of 1692. Laying the plans for our escape. And that awful night, September 19, 1692, when he gave his life for us.
Father died due to human folly and fear, a “full death,” unlike those killed too young by accident or evil purpose. His soul would have moved into Summerland, beyond Talamadden, death’s haven—and maybe even beyond our understanding, to become one with the universe. He made the sacrifice willingly, believing his death would allow the rest of us to escape the persecutions to come.
Instead, we walked into the Shadowmaster’s trap.
That was four years past, in absolute moments—but it was over three hundred years ago in Bren’s non-witching world and in L.O.S.T. And yet in Shallym, it was over a thousand years in the future.
Such a reality would certainly boggle an untrained human mind.
“The land is the key,” Father had told the witches in the Middle Salem meeting. “The city officials are only accusing you of witchcraft so they might take possession of your lands, as the law allows. Stand your ground! If we expose the true motives of these accusers, how can this madness continue?”
Mother had been sitting next to me in that meeting. Her stern face was inches from mine when she leaned to whisper, “Your father is a fool, Jasmina. He trusts too much in the good nature of others. These unconverted will turn on him like mad dogs. Mind what you see and mark my words. Soon, ruling the witches will be your task, for he will no doubt get himself killed in this pursuit.”
I sighed and rubbed my temples. At the time, I thought it was more of her vicious criticism.
But she had been right, my mother.
In days, my father had been murdered by the humans and the unconverted, pressed to death in Middle Salem. On purpose. By “pious” men who believed they were ridding the village of witches.
As his only direct descendant, I became Queen of the Witches. Guardian of the precious Path. The Path Father created with his brilliant mind, despite what Mother thought of his skill and intellect. For he had been truly brilliant.
I could almost see Father sitting beside me now, laughing at the bare drawing room, pointing his graceful fingers at empty spaces and restoring what I had destroyed.
“Quite the temper, my love,” he would no doubt say, as he had so many times. “Are you angry with your mother again? Well, she certainly is a complex being—but do not think to judge her until you know her true heart as I do. Come, come, sweet Jasmina. Next, you’ll be accusing her of being Nire. Give me my hug and go and find us some fresh mushrooms for a rabbit stew.”
A tear slid to my cheek and I slapped it away.
So many times I had brought him mushrooms. Stew after stew. Eating with him was like a warm hug, filling me with joy and love.
Gone forever now.
I scrubbed another tear from my cheek.
Sentiment was useless. Sobbing was for the ailing and the weak. Not for a queen who must see to her people. Besides, it was well past time for monitoring, and the very air about Shallym had been thick with trouble since Bren’s appearance in the market.
As though the Shadowmaster had found my Sanctuary. As though Nire knew the Shadowalker was here.
But that was impossible. If Nire had found Shallym, we would be as dead as the witches in Trier.
Still, something bothered me.
I thought of Bren, and the room around me blurred. I smelled flowers and cinnamon spice and knew I was about to have a vision. I’d had them since childhood, though less and less frequently of late. Drawing on years of training, I cleared my mind and kept my eyes unfocused.
The image that formed was all too familiar.
My teeth slammed together, and I felt the day’s fatigue like a harsh yoke on my neck and chest. Still, I didn’t reject this gift from the Goddess, this rare prescience that might give me needed information.
Blinking, but keeping my gaze adjusted to nothing, I knew it was Bren standing before me, laughing. His eyes were no longer the warm brown I had come to like—but the awful, bright bruise-blue I had known and hated.
Alderon.
Bren had Alderon’s eyes!
And then his features twisted horribly, shrinking, forming into something small and squat, more hideous doll than human being.
You can’t hide forever, the Bren-thing rasped in a skin-grating voice I had never before heard. Alderon wasn’t strong enough to light the way, but I am. I’m coming for you, Jasmina Corey.
The Bren-creature sneered.
Queen of Nothing.
With that, the vision vanished. I was left gasping and horrified, and wondering what on earth to make of that. As usual in my life, the answers weren’t immediately forthcoming, and I had no minutes to waste seeking them.
I’m coming for you, Jasmina Corey, Queen of Nothing.
At least that part was bitterly clear. I chewed my lip, trying not to faint from the vision’s draining, evil sensation. We needed to double our efforts with Bren’s training. Time was definitely running out.
On the dawn of the third day after I turned Bren into an ass, he had made more progress in weapons training than I might have imagined.
I wasn’t altogether certain that was a good thing for me, however. Likely most of his elegant sword strokes were made with images of my head ready for the chopping. And yet, he was such a gentleman with Rol, so relaxed and easy and so…himself. Hiding, watching, I saw flashes of brilliance in his movements, and I heard the range of his humor and knowledge. Quite impressive, really. With Rol, Bren became the boy I sensed behind that raging wall of emotions I seemed barred from moving through.
As if I want to move through? Goddess, spare me.
Remnants of my vision clung to my consciousness, troubling me whenever Bren laughed and, for some reason, whenever he placed his hand in his pocket and shrugged. I kept havin
g an urge to rip off his pockets so he couldn’t do that again, but I feared my meaning would be less than clear if I did.
Instead, I had repaired to the study again to give myself some peace, but no queen has peace for long. With a sigh, I made myself stand and prepare for the task of checking my kingdom, monitoring each Sanctuary whether intact or violated. I had to do what I could to protect the witches forced to stay behind—and to track and estimate Nire’s movements.
Clearing my thoughts was no easy endeavor, but I focused on a simple mantra given to me by my mother.
“Soar, the spirit. Soar, the spirit.”
Slowly, the clutter between my ears swept itself left and right, forging a clear path to my center, to my ability to focus, and to the endless bounty of the earth and the Goddess.
“Soar, the spirit. Soar, the spirit.”
My mind stretched toward the ceiling. It was a trick of concentration, separating consciousness from the physical body, much like shifting the eyes to see something close, and then far away. Since the age of four, I had been a master of such feats. Better, even, than Father. And Mother, though she would perish before admitting it.
A rush of air and the lurch of my belly told me that I had broken free. I had become part of the air and wind, free of the earth, and yet more connected than ever.
My body, my shell, yet stood beneath me, eyes closed, muscles as rigid as any armor. I did not fear for my body’s safety, for Shadowbridge’s protections were my own, and thus the strongest magic along the Path.
My arms, now the wings of a falcon, stretched to lift me higher and higher, through the ceiling and out of Shadowbridge. The afternoon sky was a splendid, brilliant blue, banishing thoughts of my parents and Bren, clearing my senses for a proper search.
With studied precision, I covered diagonals over Shallym. Back and forth. Up and down. Listening. Watching.
Wind whipped against me, forcing me high before allowing me to drop low. I tested the air with my feathers and instincts.
Only the oldeFolke noticed me in my falcon form as I passed through the market. A hag leading a young girl—Helden—pointed. The hag’s hag-spirit, this one a scraggy black cat, hissed and swiped a paw at me. Helden looked as if she’d like to do the same. An elfling shoe merchant bowed to me on my next pass, causing his green cap to fall into a puddle. I dove and retrieved it, tossing it to his eagle-brother when I came through again.
All seemed peaceful. All seemed in order.
One by one, I opened the Path’s eleven doors, through the eleven different points in time, and flew patrol over each Sanctuary. As I entered each door and slipped into each Sanctuary, I took care to re-seal the Path behind me.
Even Middle Salem received a fair share of my attention, though I hated every moment of being there. As was typical when it was daylight in Shallym, it was night in Middle Salem. It was as if the two Sanctuaries moved on an opposite clock.
As I passed over Ipswich Road, I glanced left and right. Salem Village, the farming section, was quiet and dark. Salem Town, on the port and alive with British trade, seemed brighter and more inviting. If only the witches had stayed on the port side of that invisible boundary—but as the humans moved in from Europe, the witches moved west.
And the humans came west with us, until they overtook us and kept going, miles out of the township proper, to the rocky farmland where we had made our homes. We tried to exist in peace with them, set up businesses and offered goods to both the villagers and the townspeople, but by the Goddess, Puritans saw the devil behind every tree, beneath every lost crop, and beside every fever blister. Especially the poorer villagers—they were the most superstitious lot of all.
Wind whipped my face, and I turned my feathers to avoid the worst of the chill. As if the worst of anything could be avoided in Middle Salem.
The villagers were terrified enough before Nire interfered, twisting the mind of Samuel Parris, the spiritual leader of Salem Village. This much we learned from the hags who defected to our side. The Shadowmaster had whispered powerful poison, turning an otherwise good man into a murderous zealot. It was Nire who made Parris obsessed with and terrified of witches, using visions of witches ruling the world and slaughtering Christians by the score. It was Nire’s influence that heated the minister’s tongue until the good reverend’s sermons fanned jealousy and mistrust into raging, hateful fires.
The people of Salem Village turned on the people of Salem Town. All along the imaginary line between village and town, the same line I now flew above, anyone with any land or prosperity was accused of witchcraft. Under British law, the penalty for witchcraft was death by hanging, and of course, the town officials could seize the “criminal’s” land.
Land and money. Typical human pursuits. My wings ached from the tension filling my falcon-body.
As usual, human pursuits left real witches caught in the middle, though none of us were actually accused of consorting with the devil. Not until Father volunteered himself, “accusing” my mother, his own wife.
Salem Village was stunned and entranced.
That was Father’s plan, to draw attention to himself, in hopes the fools would do what they had done so many times before: accuse the accuser. Father thought that if the villagers spent their time and attention on him, it would spare more innocents from accusation and deflect attention from the true witches, who were preparing to flee onto the Path. Father refused trial, and refused comment, drawing the ire of the judges and ministers, keeping everyone’s focus on him just as he planned, and giving us precious time to disappear.
The memories overran me, and I slowed—almost too much. The breeze eased, letting me drift toward the ground.
We had to flee Middle Salem that day. We had no choice. In that, Mother had been right.
But Father feared that if we left without stopping the insanity, innocent humans would be executed in our stead.
And he was right. So terribly and brutally right.
The very hour we tried to leave, Father was supposed to pretend to endure his “execution” by pressing. The magistrates hoped this form of torture would make him confess his sins. The entire village turned out to watch, and while their attention was elsewhere, I opened and closed the Path as fast as I could. One at a time, I escorted witches to the barrier and across, instructed them to wait, and went back for the next.
Nire wasn’t yet strong enough to walk the Path freely and without limits, but definitely strong enough to interfere. We just didn’t know—I just didn’t know—how powerful the Shadowmaster had become.
The Path itself seemed to fight me, and it became harder and harder to get people safely through the energy bands supporting the road through time. My limbs grew heavy, and my mind began to drown in nothing at all. The moon caught my attention. The wind. The stars. I forgot opening and closing spells. I didn’t think to concentrate. It no longer seemed important to hurry, and I felt compelled to have long conversations with many witches each time I opened the barrier. Outside the Path, waiting witches dozed or moved off, plucking blades of grass.
But the clock kept ticking outside of the dark spell holding us ignorant, and the weights on Father’s chest grew heavier. But he dared not speak out or use magic to stop his torture until I gave him the signal that all witches were safely on the Path…
Ah, what a horrid mess.
I nearly stopped flying at the memories, pulling out of my steep dive at the last second. What had happened next to my father—I didn’t want to remember, but I couldn’t shut it from my mind.
Even now, I could see myself as I at last realized Nire’s evil enchantment. Consciousness waking with screams of alarm, I battled the magic and broke it. So much time had passed. Not an hour—but a day! Almost two. Immediately, I sensed Father dying. His life ebbed and his spirit moving to the next plane before I could complete my task.
And even now, four years later, I could still feel the loss of my father ripping through my soul as I at last hurried back to the Path to get
my mother and the others. Forcing myself to leave Father’s empty shell behind as I took the last witch through the barrier with me, to join those who were waiting.
The last witch was Rol, of course. He had stayed to help me. Only, once we arrived back on the Path, it was empty. The fifty-odd witches I had escorted to the Path’s safety were missing, including my mother.
Nire had them.
The nearby Shadows made that only too clear, and the hag defectors confirmed it over time. Nire had my family and our friends, and the Shadowmaster would kill them if I did not leave Middle Salem immediately. I didn’t understand why, past the fact that Nire couldn’t yet challenge me directly, but wanted me off balance and far from everything I found comfortable and familiar. I didn’t know where the Shadowmaster’s Sanctuary was, or even where to begin the search—though I remained alert for clues everywhere I went.
My father was dead, and my mother was missing, and virtually everyone I had ever known was gone. Hostage to the Shadowmaster.
And back in Middle Salem, humans went on killing each other for imaginary witchcraft, in order to gain land, money, and power. No doubt Nire thought it amusing. The Shadowmaster would have been delighted if the humans had murdered each other down to the last soul.
How did any creature learn to hate so deeply? I pumped my wings and rose higher over the cursed ground.
As always, Middle Salem began to weigh too heavily on my heart. Even four years later, I could still sense the spot where Father died.
If only the Path of Shadows could take us back in time to a moment of our choosing—but time is not so kind. It rushes ahead, relentless. Once a moment is lived, it cannot be revisited, for time has moved on. The Path actually allowed me to move across time, but not through it. I could not go back and save my father, or prevent my mother and the rest of the witches from rushing into Nire’s dark arms.
And so I flew above the cemetery, past crumbled angels, stark crosses, and shadowy crypts, to the spot where my father’s bones lay in unhallowed ground. Nothing marked his final resting place save a clump of bushes. Witches didn’t get headstones in Old Salem. Thanks to Nire, Father died for nothing and went on to this ignoble burial. I couldn’t save the others, and neither could he. In fact, other than Rol, the only witch we saved from Middle Salem was me.
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