by Amber Argyle
Drenelle grabbed Senna’s arm and dragged her away from listening ears. “By the Creators, why would two men attack a sixteen-year-old girl?”
“That’s impossible,” Prenny growled. “There are no men on the island. And no one can get inside without our permission.”
Senna’s mother met the old woman’s gaze. “Like they didn’t get on the island before?”
Prenny stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “The traitor is dead. All the other Witches are accounted for.”
Senna shook her head. “I heard them. They’re part of a plan to attack Haven. And they’re working with a Witch here.”
Prenny opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Coyel held herself very still. “You’re sure?”
Senna met the woman’s blue eyes. “They were guaranteed egress from the island for themselves and a captive.”
The three Heads exchanged glances. Senna could see they didn’t want to believe her. But the blood on her hands and the bruise swelling on the back of her skull were proof.
Chavis marched toward them. The Witch was Head of Water and therefore their leader in battle. She was dressed in men’s clothes. Strapped across her chest was a crisscross harness for her pistols, with a water-emblem coin where the leather straps met. Her long gray hair hung in a braid down the center of her back. “How many? Where?”
Senna pointed a shaking finger back the way she’d come. “Two of them. On the west side of the island.”
Chavis whirled around. “Witchlings and Apprentices in the circle. Arianis is in charge.”
“But if there’s a traitor in our midst—” Drenelle started.
Chavis turned toward her. “Have you a better idea?”
Drenelle slowly shook her head.
Chavis went on, her tone commanding, “Keepers assume battle formation—one Witch from each of the Four Disciplines, with a Water in charge. Search the island. Senna with me.”
“I’m coming with my daughter,” her mother declared.
Chavis tightened her lips but nodded. “Fine.”
Drenelle blanched. “Shouldn’t we wait till morning?”
Chavis didn’t bother responding.
Arianis glanced at the Witchlings and Apprentices before jogging forward. “Head Coyel, I can help search the island.”
Coyel answered without looking at her. “You’re still an Apprentice.”
Arianis glowered at Senna. “So is she.”
Senna had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. This really wasn’t the time for Arianis’ petty jealousies.
Chavis shouldered past Arianis. “Yes, but she knows where she was attacked and you do not. Now move!”
Arianis clenched her jaw and started shouting for the Apprentices and Witchlings to form up. The Apprentices locked forearms and started singing.
The area around them surged with a blast of wind. Shimmering like an aurora, a cylindrical barrier rose into the night sky. Nothing and no one could cross until the Witches released each other.
As long as the circle held, the young Witches would be safe. Unless the traitor…Senna pushed the worry away.
Chavis handed a musket to Prenny and one of the pistols to Coyel. The three women loaded the gunpowder, wad, and ball before tapping the powder into the frizzen.
Senna had just stabbed a man. Watching them load the guns made her stomach hurt. “We have our songs,” she said.
“Sometimes a musket works better than Witch song,” Chavis said.
Drenelle grabbed her lantern off the ground. “This is a bad idea. We should stay where it’s safe.”
“Douse the lantern. It will only make us targets and blind us to the night.” Chavis started forward without another word.
Drenelle pursed her lips before blowing out the light, but she didn’t put the lantern down.
Senna stared at the pistol in Coyel’s hands, her whole body loath to go back into the darkness. She listened for the music again, somehow doubting she’d ever heard it in the first place. Hollow silence echoed back to her.
When Senna made no move to follow them, Chavis turned. “Senna, you may need to show us where to go.”
The memory of being shot burned through her, and her long- since-healed arm ached anew. She could taste the gunpowder on her tongue from the night her dog, Bruke, had died saving her. She couldn’t seem to move.
Gently, her mother took her arm. “Chavis won’t shoot anyone unless she has to.”
Going back into danger went against Senna’s every instinct. Fear seemed to lift her stomach into her throat. Steeling herself, she left the lantern-lit clearing behind.
Her mother pressed herself against Senna’s side, and Senna had to admit she was grateful for her presence.
Passing other groups of searching Witches, the five Keepers hustled as fast as they dared, their hands outstretched to feel their way forward, towards the only way in or out of Haven—the underwater cave. If Senna’s attackers wanted to flee, it was the only place to go.
Etched in the side of one of the cliffs was a stone archway. Briars and thistle guarded the entrance and grew thick over the cave’s name: Velveten.
“No one’s been here,” Coyel said, her voice heavy with relief.
“Unless a Witch sang them inside.” Chavis checked the powder in her pan and half cocked her gun. “Drenelle, light your lamp.”
Senna heard the scrape of a rare match. A flame burst to life, burning afterimages into her vision—the sight of Drenelle in a chemise that practically vomited lace. The air was filled with the smell of burning sulfur. Drenelle lit the wick and twisted up the lever on her small, ridiculously ornate lamp.
As light flooded the area, Senna sighed in relief. For the first time since leaving the clearing, she could make out the other Witches’ faces instead of amorphous shapes.
Coyel sang away the briars and thistle that hid the elaborate entrance. It was a place that could only be created by Witch song. The intricately engraved arch was just the beginning. Carved into the rock wall all along the island were perfect trees, mountains, curls of wind, the sun, moon, and stars, even the faces of the Creators. Every image important to the Witches was present. But the once beautiful carvings were worn by time and weather until they were mere shadows of their former majesty.
Much like the Witches themselves.
Chavis took the lantern and eased down the steps. The light threw harsh, crawling shadows on the walls and gave the carvings the appearance of movement, as if they were writhing away from the light. At the bottom, Senna stood on the mosaic stone floor, staring at the black surface of the pool.
Coyel breathed in sharply. “One of the boats is missing.”
“They’re gone then.” Chavis cursed. “How badly was he injured?”
Senna started to clench her fists. Pain shot from her palm up her arm. She made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a whimper. “About a hand’s span of glass in his stomach.”
Chavis chewed her lip. “The other one either carried him out or abandoned him. Come on, back to the place they were last seen.” She grabbed the lantern out of Drenelle’s hands and shoved it at Sacra. “You stay here just in case. Make sure no one gets past you.”
Sacra shot a concerned glance at Senna before hurrying after Chavis. “I’m not leaving my daughter.”
Chavis handed her one of the pistols. “We need Brusenna to show us where she was attacked. We need four of us to control the Four Sisters. You are extraneous, therefore you stay.”
Sacra stumbled to a halt, her mouth open as if to argue. She swallowed. “You brought me here for this—to guard the door.”
“Obviously.” Chavis started moving out. “Keep your back against the wall so they can’t sneak up on you. If you see one of them, shoot. Aim for the stomach—that way they’ll live long enough to be interrogated.”
Senna paused beside her mother. She couldn’t bring herself to leave her alone. “We shouldn’t—”
Coyel gripped her arm a
nd propelled her forward. “Your mother is a very capable Witch. She’ll be fine.”
Senna turned to watch her mother in the small orb of lantern light. Sacra cocked back the hammer of the pistol and glared into the darkness. Hoping Coyel was right, Senna hurried to catch up with Chavis.
When they moved into the uninhabited quarter of Haven, Drenelle glanced at Senna askance. “What were you doing here?”
Senna’s mouth went dry, and she had to swallow several times before the words would come. “I couldn’t sleep.”
After a few minutes of blundering around, she stepped on something hard and oddly shaped. Her veins aching with dread, she stopped to pick it up. She turned it over in her good hand a few times before she realized what it was. A slingshot. Her head seemed to throb in response. “Here.”
Chavis pulled out her pistol. “Prenny and Coyel.”
Prenny handed her musket to Drenelle, who held it away from her body like it might sully her white chemise. Then the older Witch pulled out four glass vials. “Ready?”
Coyel crooned to the wind.
Wind, spread these Nips and blow them straight
To any who may lie in wait.
Wind gushed down on the tops of their heads, swelling away from them when it hit the ground. As Coyel continued the song, Prenny circled them and tossed the contents of each vial into the air. The wind caught the powder, billowing it outward.
Even with the currents blowing it away from their packed group, the Nips made the back of Senna’s throat itch and her eyes smart. She held her cloak over her face and squinted through watering eyes.
Coyel stopped singing and rested a hand on Senna’s shoulder. “Anyone the powder touched would erupt into a helpless fit of coughing.”
The Witches strained, listening. But there was no sound.
Chavis stared into the shadows. “We’re not going to find anything on a night like this. Best lock ourselves in and wait till morning. We can do a thorough search then.”
“Whoever it was, they’re either gone or dead,” Prenny said in obvious relief.
Coyel stared into the dark depths of the forest. “Don’t be too relieved, Head. Someone brought them inside, which means we still have a traitor on the island.”
3. Pendant
After setting her healing kit on the table, Sacra poured a measure of medicine into a cup. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”
Senna’s hand shook so badly she could barely keep from slopping the medicine over the brim. She threw back the bitter stuff, gagging at its strength.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the bass’s gasp as she’d slipped the knife into his guts. She could still taste the metallic fear on her tongue. Her body seemed to store the impression of his arms wrapped around her, the licorice smell of his mouth. A tremor coursed through her body, and the mug slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.
Her mother glanced up. “You’re starting into an apoplectic fit.” She grabbed another potion from the shelf. She held it to Senna’s mouth and helped her drink it before wrapping her up in a blanket. But the shudders just kept getting worse.
“Senna, listen to me. You have to calm down.”
Senna half shook her head. Without the frenetic rush of fear to hold her emotions at bay, they came crashing down on her. “I just—I wish Joshen were here.” She needed him to hold her and reassure her that all would be well.
A hurt look crossed her mother’s face. “Slow your breathing. Come, breathe with me.” She inhaled slowly and held in the air.
Senna mirrored her until the dizziness passed.
Soon, Senna noticed the edges of her vision softening. Her eyes went unfocused and she tingled everywhere.
“Good. The potion’s beginning to work. Just concentrate on breathing.” Her mother relaxed a bit. “You’re going to be all right.”
Senna hissed through her teeth as her mother gently poured salt water onto her wounded hand. Blood welled into the lines of her palm. They formed dark, curling patterns that swirled in the water like incense smoke shifting with the breeze. It was almost pretty.
“What happened out there tonight, Brusenna?”
She only wanted to forget, but her mother needed to know. Senna had repeated her account so many times her head spun with it. Each time, it seemed more dreamlike, less real. With a sigh, she recounted it again.
Her mother held her curved needle over a candle flame. She waited for it to cool before threading it with thin strips of sheep intestines. “The cuts aren’t wide, but they are deep. It should only take five or so.”
Senna glared at the needle.
“Hold out your hand.”
Shutting her eyes, Senna turned away. The needle dug in. She gasped, but it would be worse without her mother’s herbs. She squirmed and fought the urge to clench her hand and pull away.
“Hold still. It’ll hurt less.”
Senna tried to think of something to distract her, but her thoughts danced out of her head before she could catch them.
She was silent until her mother tied the last stitch. “Finished.”
Senna studied the ugly cuts in her hand, black string sticking out of her flesh. She wondered what a palm reader would make of the new lines crisscrossing her palm. “Do you think he’s dead—the man I stabbed?”
“With a gut wound, probably.”
How much must he have hated her to use his dying breath to threaten her, threaten all the Witches? “Then where is his body?”
“Probably hidden somewhere we’ll never find it. Or maybe they really did escape.”
Senna shivered inside. “Am I a murderer?”
“There’s a difference between defending yourself and killing someone who’s helpless against you.” Her mother smeared some salve onto a bandage and wrapped Senna’s hand. “Keep it still for about a week or you’ll reopen them.”
Staring at the shockingly white bandages, Senna nodded.
As her mother began carefully packing her kit away, she put to words the question that must be on every Witch’s tongue. “How did men get onto the island?”
Senna cradled her hand to her chest. “Someone sang them in.” She’d thought the Witches were past such dangers when she’d imprisoned the Dark Witch in a tree.
The sounds of her mother repacking her kit stilled. “You know what we must do.”
Senna shook her head in an effort to clear the drugs dulling her wits along with the pain. “What do you mean?”
Her mother rested her hand on Senna’s arm. “We must leave.”
Suddenly more awake, Senna sat up. “I’ve finally begun to learn. We can’t leave now!”
Her mother leaned forward. “I can teach you as well as anyone here. And you said it yourself. The man claimed all the Witches would soon be dead. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”
Senna didn’t exactly have friends here, but Joshen was tied to Haven. The Discipline Heads had made it clear time and again that he was their Guardian, not Senna’s. And she would not leave him. “So we run again? Is that your answer for everything?”
Her mother’s expression tightened. “Senna, sharks and falcons and wolves chase. Deer and mice and sheep run. That’s the way of our world.”
Senna shook her head. “It wasn’t always this way. We haven’t always chosen to act like prey.”
“Those days are far gone.”
“And you’d have us going back to Gonstower, would you? See how long it takes for them to hang one of us?”
Her mother withdrew her hand. “It wouldn’t have to be Gonstower. Just…away.”
Senna remembered the taunts she’d grown up with. The hatred. “No. I won’t live like that. Never again.”
Her mother sagged in her chair. “Dying is easy, Senna. Living is hard.”
Senna started out of the room, her good hand out to steady her from the vertigo caused by the herbs. “No. Choosing to do the right thing, no matter the consequences, is hard.” She swayed into one of the wal
ls, her eyes closed against the spinning.
Her mother carefully draped Senna’s arm across her shoulders. “You’re not going to make it by yourself.”
Senna screwed up her face. “No. I’ve always had to have help from someone.”
“I imagine most of us are like that.” They started up the curling stairs. It was a tight fit, especially because Senna kept stumbling and swaying.
“Well, at least I know what kind of drunk you are—philosophical. Could be worse I suppose.” Her mother grunted with effort.
Senna stiffened. “I’m not drunk!”
Her mother chuckled. “The herbs I gave you were stronger than your grandfather’s whiskey. And they used to mix that with lacquer.”
Senna bumped into the railing. “Grandfather? You never talk about him.”
Her mother braced her feet to steady her daughter. “He made very strong whiskey.”
They’d finally crested the stairs. Senna felt like they should celebrate somehow. “What about Father? Was he your Guardian?”
Sacra shook her head. “He gave it up when we had your sister. Someone had to raise her, and I was too busy.”
It was more than Senna had heard about her father in years. “That makes sense.”
Her mother helped her into the bed. “Good night.”
Senna hitched herself up on her elbow. “But why didn’t he—”
Her mother closed the door to her words.
Senna flopped back onto her bed and quickly forgot her frustration. The patterns the tree’s leaves made against the backdrop of the stars fascinated her—black on black with a scattering of pinpoint light. She was grateful that for once, sleep came on hard and dreamless.
***
Two days later, Senna sat inside a tree house shaped like a bulging onion. Her stitches itched like mad. To distract herself, she stared westward out a window with peaked tops and bottoms and a swelling center, like a bubble trying to escape from a seed pod.
She was haunted by her attack of a few nights ago, by the land and people dying in Tarten, and by the sweet licorice smell of a dying man.
Her whole body ached with the need to do something—find her attacker, release the curse on Tarten. Something. But after only a day, the Heads had insisted all the Apprentices and Witchlings go back to their regular classes, while they continued the search alone.