Extinguishing her flame, Holly clenched her eyes shut and forced herself to breathe, and as she calmed, her mind drifted back to Hazel.
Her sister stood in a moonlit field, silhouetted by the dark shadows of a distant forest. Pale blue orbs of light floated around her head, drifting away on their own courses only to return to her before drifting off yet again. One of the lights came close to Holly, and as it did, Hazel transformed.
Her hair grew long and wild, swinging past her waist in a wind Holly couldn’t feel. Woven in her locks were shards of bones and broken raven’s feathers and sprigs of yew with their bright red berries. Upon her head she wore a tall, jagged crown of blackthorn adorned with apple blossoms, wormwood, and broom. She wore a long black dress, full in the skirts and high in the neck, that had been sewn together with silver-spun thread. The material shifted in its darkness. One moment it looked gauzy and sheer, the next a mass of impenetrable shadows that even Hazel’s light couldn’t touch.
Neither sister said anything as they watched one another. Then Hazel frowned and took a step back, and a mist rose from the grass that shrouded the field in a murky haze.
Holly’s box jolted, bringing her attention back to the present. Had she been dreaming? She hadn’t realized she had fallen asleep. The box jolted again, violently, and Holly cried out as she braced herself against the box’s walls. Then the box stilled.
Holly continued to brace herself against the wood as she caught her breath. When the wood cracked beneath her hands, Holly yanked them back. Then the entire box broke and shattered shards of wood fell on top of her.
Shaking, Holly pushed them aside and crawled away from the ruined box that lay in the middle of a wide dirt road that wound through a grassy field. A little further down was a crashed wagon, its axles broken. In the distance, a black-robed man chased a pair of horses as they bolted through the field. Holly pushed herself to her feet, dusted off her own robe, and looked back at the ruined box that had been solid and whole just a few minutes before.
“Stupid necromancers,” she murmured. The day had faded, and the sinking sun captured a distant forest in a soft, golden light. Holly stared at the trees, remembering her odd dream about Hazel.
From the wagon came a pounding noise and distant, muffled shouting. Holly ran over and found a pair of long wooden crates still intact in the wagon’s bed. From inside both of them, someone shouted and pounded.
“Hemlock? Hawthorn?” It had to be them. She hoped it was them.
“Yes!” came a muffled reply from one of the crates. Though whether it was Hemlock or Hawthorn, she couldn’t tell. “Do you know what sap does to clothing? Get me out of here now!” Holly smiled. Hawthorn then.
She tried lifting the lid off the crate, but it wouldn’t budge. She kicked at it, but that didn’t do anything. “Hang on!” she said and cast a spell of fire against the wood. But just as before, the fire wouldn’t take.
“Stupid necromancers!” Holly rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand as she looked around. In a corner of the wagon was an overturned chest. She turned it over, unlatched the iron clasp, and found within a mess of tools. Among an array of loose nails, she found a hammer and chisel. She grinned and took the tools back to Hawthorn’s crate.
It took a while, and Hawthorn’s continual complaining didn’t help, but Holly managed to wedge the chisel between the wooden slats and pry the crate apart. Thankfully, Hawthorn took over to let out Hemlock. By the time they were done, night had fallen.
“Where’s Tum?” Holly said. “He wasn’t in with you guys?”
“I should hope not,” Hawthorn said.
“What happened to the driver?” Hemlock said. “And the horses?”
“I think they ran off that way,” Holly said, pointing at the field.
“Unbelievable,” Hawthorn said. “They box us up and cart us off to the middle of nowhere, then leave us to die on the side of the road.” He tried to smooth his robe, made a face, then smoothed his hair instead. When he saw Holly and Hemlock watching him, he added, “It’s rude.”
“But what about Tum?” Holly said. “Something might have happened to him.”
“We can’t really worry about Tum right now, Holly,” Hemlock said. “Hopefully, he got away. As for us, I think we need to work under the assumption that Hazel wasn’t at the Shrine and has gone on to the Sea of Severed Stars instead. We need to figure out how to get there.”
Holly pursed her lips and took a deep breath. She nodded. “All right. We’ll look for Tum later.” She peered towards the grassy field. “And I think I might know how to find the horses.”
Hazel awoke on the stone floor of the dark cavern near the bank of the pond. Her head ached, and she rubbed it as she sat up and looked around. Ash stood nearby, watching her.
“What happened?” she said. “How did I get here?”
“You went into the pool, remained there for a while, then left and lay down there. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Where did I go? What was that place? How…” Her aching head increased to a steady pounding. She took a breath and tried to relax. “How did I get back?”
Ash considered her a moment. “You never left.”
“What are you talking about? I went into the pool and… went through it to someplace else.”
Ash continued to study her, putting Hazel’s nerves on edge. Then a slow smile stretched across his face. “What did you see?”
“I… I saw Holly. What do you mean, I didn’t leave?”
“Our realm and that of the Keeper of Stars are congruous and yet not. Her realm is meant for spirits and souls, and so only the spirit of your soul went there. The rest of you remained behind.”
Hazel’s body went cold. In a voice equally icy, she said, “What are you talking about?”
“You walked in the realm of Ether, Hazel. You saw the world through eyes of the dead yet while you are perfectly well and living.” Ash beamed at her and gave a little laugh. “I wasn’t sure if it would work. The only other living souls to have ever touched this pool had already formally dedicated themselves to the Keeper. One cannot even reach this location until one has done so. But I had my suspicions, and you’ve proven them correct.” He let out a heavy breath and spread open his arms, as if inviting Hazel for a hug, but she remained still. “The Keeper has accepted you. You are well and truly one of us.”
Hazel scrambled to her feet. “I am not one of you! You used me and lied to me. All to prove some theory? You didn’t think it important to tell me what this pool was, of what would happen?”
“Would it have made any difference if I had?”
“Yes! I would have refused. I would have found another way.”
“Is that so? What is this other way, Hazel? Why didn’t you find another way to talk to your mother after she passed? Or to find the path that led you here? No one made you use necromancy to make a potion in the basement in the house in Sarnum or at the windmill in that backwater town. You made the decision to practice necromancy, Hazel. No one else. And you did this because you know, just as I do, that there is no other way.”
“That was different. Those were just spells; they didn’t mean anything. You didn’t tell me that by using the pool here I’d be dedicating myself to your Keeper of Souls. Well, I refuse him, her, it, whatever!”
“You dedicated yourself to the Keeper from the first moment you cast a necromantic spell. The only thing that happened here was that the Keeper has accepted your dedication to her. All spells mean something, Hazel. Do you think our ability to cast magic is an accident? It is a gift from the gods themselves. Most people are completely cut off from doing any magic at all until they undergo a dedication ceremony. Haven’t you ever wondered why everyone doesn’t work magic? Why everyone’s not a witch or a warlock?”
“Yes, but… the dedication ceremonies are just formalities.”
Ash sighed and shook his head. “I see the Grove hasn’t improved in its education. No, Hazel, they’re not formalities. A
t least not for most. For you, however, they are and for others like you and me who are born with pure souls. For people such as us, dedication ceremonies are quite meaningless.”
“Pure souls? What are you talking about?”
“We are the ones born with a connection to the Keeper. For us, magic comes naturally, without needing any ceremonies to appeal for a god’s favor. Haven’t you ever noticed you have a capability in schools of magic to which you have not dedicated yourself?”
“I… yes… but I didn’t…”
“And how did you account for that?”
Hazel shook her head, trying to understand everything he was telling her. “I couldn’t.”
“Exactly. Do you understand now why I left? The people of the Grove, though well meaning, are too entrenched in their superstitious ignorance. They refuse to see the world as it is; anything that doesn’t abide by their narrative, they ignore and forbid. And people like us are left to wither on their vine of mediocrity.”
Hazel took a deep breath. “Let’s suppose, for the moment, that you are right. What would my connection with this Keeper of yours have to do with my ability to cast Wyr magic or any other magic than necromancy?”
“Because, my dear daughter, all the other schools of magic are the foundation of necromancy. Wyr for Air, Wild for Earth, Hearth for Fire, Weaving for Water—these schools of magic are the bones of creation. Combine them all together, and you get something far greater than each discipline could achieve on its own—you get Ether, the soul of creation.”
Hazel shook her head. “No. That’s not possible.”
“Do not fall back on your Grove upbringing and their propensity to outright ignore plain facts. Surely you must have noticed this yourself? What of the potion you created in Sarnum? There are many who would argue that potion-making is strictly a Hearth skill. And you are well familiar with Weaving magic, are you not? You must have noticed that some of the necromantic spells you cast are awfully similar, with only an altered pronunciation to separate them. How did you account for that, Hazel?”
Hazel closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. She had noticed the similarities but had dismissed them. She hadn’t ever wanted to dwell on why she had been able to work necromancy or what it had meant. “I didn’t account for it,” she whispered.
“This is who you are, Hazel—who you’ve always been from the day you were born. To deny yourself this is like denying yourself air to breathe, fire to warm your skin, water to drink, and food to eat. You are denying yourself the very essence of your existence. Surely you can see the folly in that?”
Hazel opened her mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Her mind had numbed. She didn’t know what to think anymore or what to believe.
Ash’s expression softened, and he gently took her arm. “You are tired. We will return to your quarters.”
Unable to bring herself to resist, she followed her father as he led her from the chamber.
Back at her quarters, the mirror, basin, and ewer were still on the table, just as she had left them. The poker she had thrown remained on the floor by the bookshelf. No one appeared to have been there.
“You should get some rest,” Ash said. “I’ll have someone bring you dinner when it’s ready.” He backed out of the door, closing it after him.
Hazel stood there. She felt as heavy as a rock and about as useless. She wanted to tell Ash he was mistaken; she wasn’t at all meant for necromancy. It wasn’t who she was. And yet deep down in her heart, his words sparked a warmth of calm assurance, a familiarity that brought her… comfort. That frightened her more than anything else. She didn’t want to think about it—she couldn’t. It was all too much. She went into the bedroom and lay down, hoping for dreams that would let her forget everything, if only for a little while.
“Could we hurry this up?” Hawthorn said as he pulled off his necromancer’s robe and dropped it on the ground. “There’s a chill out, and I’m not dressed for cold weather.”
“Well, you could start with keeping your robe on if you’re so cold,” Holly said.
He drew himself up and looked down the bridge of his nose at her. “That threadbare sack couldn’t keep me warm in the middle of summer. If I’m going to die of exposure, I’d rather not do so in shabby raiments.”
“It is cold out,” Hemlock said and blew on his hands.
“Well, if you two would give me a chance to think, then I could do the spell.” She picked up Hawthorn’s discarded robe and thrust it at him. “And you keep that. You can bear looking shabby like the rest of us for a little while.”
The brothers fell silent. Hemlock folded his arms and hunched his shoulders while Hawthorn frowned at the robe as he held it at arm’s length.
“Right,” Holly said. She cast a Calling spell, then waited, holding her breath as she listened.
“Well?” Hawthorn said. “Did it work?”
“I don’t know. Animals have minds of their own. I can’t make them come over. They have to want to, and I don’t know if two necromancer horses will want to come over. Or even if they’re close enough for the spell to work.”
“So what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Stand here and freeze?”
“Good grief. I’ll make a fire. Just help me with the wood.”
They gathered some of the broken parts of the wagon and put them in a pile. Holly set the wood alight and into a crackling campfire.
Hawthorn warmed his hands by the flames. “I suppose we’ll have to spend the night here.”
“Don’t start,” Holly said.
Hemlock squinted as he peered down the road. “Is someone coming?”
“Hopefully someone with a carriage who’s fond of making a little coin,” Hawthorn said.
Holly looked down the road, but she couldn’t see anything. She held her breath to listen and made out a faint thumping sound of galloping hooves. “It’s the horses.” She moved down the road. By the moonlight, she was able to make out the silhouettes of two horses, and…
“There’s a man on one of them.”
The brothers joined her. Hemlock summoned his fairy pocket watch light. Hawthorn conjured a goose with ivory feathers that glinted gold and silver.
“A goose?” Holly said.
“Geese are vicious,” Hawthorn said.
“Hawthorn got bitten by one when he was a boy,” Hemlock said. “He’s never gotten over it.”
“Yes, well, our friend approaching here isn’t going to get over it either if he means to cause trouble.”
Hemlock sent out his fairy, illuminating two black horses, upon one of which sat a rider tugging frantically on the reins.
“By the Nameless One, stop!” the rider cried as he and the horses drew closer. But the horses didn’t stop until they reached Holly. One of them nudged her with its snout. She smiled and petted it.
The rider slid off the horse and ran a hand over his flushed face. He wore the black robe of a Shrine necromancer. He eyed the robes Hemlock and Holly still wore with a dubious expression. “Who—”
“Attack!” said Hawthorn, and the goose honked and pecked the necromancer on the thigh.
The necromancer cried out and tried to back away, but the goose had his robe in its beak. They fell into a bout of tug-of-war before he remembered himself and started a spell.
“No!” Holly said. One of the horses head-butted him and knocked him down. The goose honked again, flapped its broad wings, and pecked at him some more.
He curled into a ball as he covered his head with his arms. “Get it off me!”
“We need to tie him up or something,” Holly said.
Hemlock ripped off the hem of the necromancer’s robe. But between the goose’s flapping wings and the necromancer rolling around, he couldn’t do much else. “Could you ease up on your feathered terror?”
Hawthorn examined his fingernails for several moments before he released his spell. “Told you they were vicious.”
With the goose gone, the necromancer sc
rambled to his feet and tried to run, but Holly tackled him to the ground. “Get him, Hemlock!”
Hemlock tied the necromancer’s hands as Holly sat on his back. She got up, and Hemlock pulled the man to his feet.
“What did I ever do to you people?” the necromancer said.
“You put us in boxes!” Holly said.
“And left us here to die,” Hawthorn said. “In the cold.”
“Where’s Hazel?” Hemlock said.
The man blinked. “Hazel? I don’t know any Hazel. And I didn’t put you in the boxes. I was told to deliver the crates to… well… somewhere. And so that’s what I was doing.” He sniffed. “It’s a thankless job a man has when he finds himself attacked by wild animals.”
“And tackled by young women,” Hawthorn added. “Yes, you bear a heavy burden in life. Where is this ‘somewhere’ you were taking us?”
The necromancer lifted his chin. “I can’t say.”
“It wouldn’t be the Sea of Severed Stars, by any chance?” said Hemlock.
The necromancer’s brow furrowed for a moment before he composed himself. “No.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Hawthorn said. “Why were you taking us there?”
“I told you, I wasn’t—”
“Yes, yes, you know nothing of the Sea of Severed Stars. If we must play this game, fine. Why were you delivering us to this secret location then?”
The man put on a defiant expression.
“Maybe you should bring the goose back,” Holly said.
The necromancer flinched, but he remained silent.
“No,” Hemlock said. “It doesn’t matter why. If he was taking us to the sea, then we need to continue on and see if Hazel’s there.
“But what about Tum?” Holly said.
“What about him?” said Hawthorn.
Holly ignored him and turned to the necromancer. “What did you do with Tum?”
“Tum?”
“Yes, Tum. Cellar gnome, about this tall. Kind of obnoxious.”
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