Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales Book 1)

by Ann Aguirre

  Unaware of my inner turmoil, Njål kisses my cheek after breakfast, like we’re a normal couple separating for a day’s work. On that odd if cheerful thought, I finish two of the rough dresses I tacked together yesterday. Now I have four to wear, along with better quality undergarments than I’ve ever owned before. Now, though, it’s time for me to tackle a bigger task. I had put it off because it looked complicated, but according to the book of charms, I should have warded this place to make it mine first thing. That’s evidently what a witch does when she moves into a new residence.

  I didn’t have the courage to try since it looked so complex, but with the garden responding to my magic, it would be cowardly not to attempt it. I’ve skimmed the section about trying this when there might be older magics in place, so I’m aware of the risks. This could explode spectacularly, and not in the metaphorical sense. But if I survive, I should learn something about what I’m dealing with. Reckless? Certainly.

  But being careful doesn’t change the world.

  19.

  I collect The Witch Within the Walls from the library, first.

  Then I gather components needed for a ward, and fortunately, all the supplies are present in the kitchen, dried herbs perfectly preserved. Following the next step, I burn the herbs with an open flame, until fine ash remains. Now I’m supposed to add a few drops of my blood. That’s similar to what I did in the side garden, but the components and binding chants are different. My pulse skitters as I prepare the protective mixture, or whatever it’s called. There’s probably a proper witchy term, but I don’t know it.

  If Njål knew what I was attempting and how risky this could be, he would likely stop me, all the more reason to muster my courage and get it done swiftly. No more hesitation. Today, I’ll find out if I can leave the keep, if I’ll be frozen when I return.

  I don my gray cloak. Fear dogs my steps down the hall and into the courtyard, where I find Agatha and Bart racing around. They bleat and fall in behind me like I’m leading a goat parade, and we go all the way to the portcullis, a massive black iron obstacle. I don’t even know how to raise this thing.

  “Will you open the gate for me?” I ask politely.

  Like that will work. And it doesn’t.

  Bitterburn keeps what it claims, and I suppose I’m no exception, but I refuse to give up this easily. I’m not a prisoner. I’m not cursed. And this place has answered my requests.

  After some searching, I discover a pulley to one side. I haul with all my strength, and eventually the portcullis raises enough for me to crawl out. The goats follow. I wait for that feeling, the lead in my feet like Njål mentioned, but I only feel odd about leaving. What if Njål notices that I’ve gone and thinks—oh, never mind. Surely I won’t be gone that long.

  I turn to address the goats sternly. “Do not eat what I drop, you understand? This is serious business and if you interfere there could be consequences.” Bart bleats in a querulous tone, and I interpret it as a serious inquiry. “I’m not sure what will happen, but I expect it won’t be good. For all I know, wayward magic might turn you both into people, then you’d have to wear shoes and get jobs. How horrid would that be?”

  Agatha seems suitably chastened, ready to treat this occasion with the solemnity it requires. They both follow from a respectful distance. So far, everything is fine. The portcullis is open behind me, as if granting me permission to do this and return.

  “Let none pass that would do harm. These walls shall keep us safe and warm. My will is strong, and I say it clear. I am now the mistress here.” The first time I intone the words, I feel faintly ridiculous, so the rhyme comes out as a whisper.

  I’m supposed to do this every six alns. Honestly, I’ve no idea if I even have enough supplies to cover the perimeter. But something happens as I walk. My steps become firm and measured like I’m marching to war. No longer am I quiet or hesitant. I proclaim the chant repeatedly in loud, ringing tones, as if my blood and will can make this true.

  I lay claim. I lay wards. I feel them forming, soft pulls of energy that tickle beneath my feet. They’ve been created before—though I’m not sure by who—but it’s been a long time since anyone touched them, and the strength of what’s already there astounds me, as if I’ve learned there’s a dragon sleeping in a cavern beneath the keep.

  Though I’m only walking, flicking ash, and speaking words, this is physically taxing, and it gets worse when I must climb, because Bitterburn is built into a cliff. It would have been easier to do this from inside the keep, but the book said it’s best to craft the wards externally. I imagine the witch who wrote it was talking about a small cottage, not a citadel like this one, but she’s the expert, not me.

  It requires all my resolve not to look down. Yet I still stumble and nearly fall, grabbing on to the icy rocks. Clinging to them, I catch a glimpse over the side, all sheer stones, plummeting into the frozen gray of the lake below. Arms trembling, I haul myself upward, the basket shaking on my arm. I tumble onto safe ground and roll over in the snow. So cold. In time, I get to my feet and stay close to the walls, resuming my progress, scattering ashes and chanting.

  Oddly, the goats are still with me. They haven’t gotten bored or wandered off. Agatha and Bart nudge me onward, so I keep moving. My muscles burn with this unaccustomed exertion, and I’m only half done. I can do this. I can.

  I trip, coming down on the other side, tumble down the slope and scrape my legs. The blood won’t stop me. Shakily, I use the implacable stones of Bitterburn’s external wall to pull myself upright and keep moving. With each step I take, the wards get stronger, attuning to me like an instrument only I can play.

  By the time I round the last corner, closing the circle, my voice booms like thunder. Or maybe it only feels that way to me because my entire body thrums with energy, and I see a shadow behind Bitterburn, a dreadful coiled thing that afflicts the keep but isn’t part of it. Maybe I’m so exhausted that I’m starting to hallucinate, but I stagger onward, determined to finish what I’ve started.

  When I reach the portcullis from the far side, scatter the last of the ash, and speak the words for the final time, the pressure in my head gives, like an explosion contained inside my skull. I tumble backwards and Bart tries to catch me, but he’s a goat. So I fall on top of him and Agatha nudges me with her head. As I lay on the cold dirt staring up at the sky, my ears ringing, I realize that it’s gotten dark.

  The stars are out. I haven’t seen them in so long.

  In the village, there was no time to look, always so much work to do. And here, I just don’t come out to the courtyard at night. The ice statues are creepy, and it’s cold as the heart of someone who’s stopped loving you. For a few moments, I gaze up at the brilliance of the distant stars.

  Just for a little longer, I’ll rest.

  Bart and Agatha grow frantic, but I can’t be bothered. Some part of me knows this is a terrible idea. If not because of the cold, there are other dangers in the dark, hungry wolves and ice cats that must be starving. Get up, I tell myself, but my body doesn’t respond.

  As if through a deep tunnel, I hear Njål shouting my name. I blink and try to face him. He’s close. Why does it sound so far? The ringing in my ears intensifies, drowning his frantic cries. I think . . . he’s throwing himself at the portcullis, trying to get to me, but unlike the supplies, I’m too far for him to reach.

  I hear the groan of him ripping the gate up entirely, and I think he’s trying, trying so desperately to reach me, but I feel the pressure now because I’m part of the wards. It’s a thousand pounds weighing him down. He’ll be crushed, all the pain of dying without the peace, and his crazed effort sparks some hidden reserve. With the goats shoving at me, I stir my fingertips and then my toes, and with the last of my strength, I crawl.

  Inch by inch, until I’m near enough for Njål to pull me in, and I come through the barrier with a pop that nearly deafens me. I can pass through it, but he can’t. And it’s definitely there, crafted by someone much more ex
perienced than me.

  Njål tumbles backward, though he’s careful to shield me from impact, arms around me like he’ll never let go. “Amarrah! Can you speak? You’re bleeding, oh gods, what am I supposed to do? I can’t—”

  “I’ll live.” It’s all I can say.

  Because Bitterburn is chattering at me in ways that I didn’t know were possible. It’s not the voice, but the echo of ten thousand lives that imprinted on this place and eventually, it acquired life of its own, although not the sort anyone in the village would acknowledge. This is strange, witchy stuff, and I can’t process half of what the keep’s trying to tell me with my ears still ringing, blood oozing down my shins, and my brain doing its best to turn off.

  “I thought you left. What were you doing out there?”

  “Protecting us.” With unsteady hands, I touch the bruises he’s inflicted on himself, the blood trickling down his face. “You tried to break the portcullis? And the barrier? With brute strength.”

  “It’s nothing I haven’t attempted before. And with you lying there as night fell . . . please don’t do this again,” he begs, hands still roving over me like I’m made of glass.

  “You can’t feel the difference, can you?” Njål has lived here for ages, and he has no clue that Bitterburn cares for him in its way.

  It’s why the keep let me in.

  He peers at me in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

  We pass through the courtyard and neither of us turns into an ice statue. That means I can come and go as I please. Not right now, of course, with my bones on fire and my mind pulled in a thousand directions, from whispered input that I can’t filter or understand. My wards are tied to older ones, complex in ways it might take me forty years to understand.

  The goats chase us as Njål carries me into the kitchen, quietly muttering to himself as he tends my wounds. I don’t respond until he puts a cup of warm herbal tea in my hand and folds my fingers around the mug, leaving his in case I can’t manage on my own.

  Please, I tell the keep silently. I’ll listen later. I promise. Can you give me some peace?

  Slowly the noise scales back to a more tolerable level, and the ringing in my ears dies down. I sip the tea and realize that I sense a fox sniffing at the spot where I fell outside the keep. The animal prowls the area for a while before fleeing for the familiarity of the forest.

  When I return to myself, my injuries are wrapped and Njål is staring at me with an unreadable expression. “You were a thousand miles away,” he says softly.

  “Not so far as that.”

  I don’t know how to bridge this. Now that I’ve done it, I do think these wards could have killed me. I’m not strong. I’m not practiced at this. Most likely I ought to have started smaller, warded a room, not the whole keep. Even I think this isn’t one of my best decisions, and I’m rather known for strange fancies in the village. Once, in the middle of winter, I convinced Owen to search for pixies, like the angry ones from that story. We both caught a terrible cold with nothing to show for our efforts.

  In a small voice, I explain everything.

  As I speak, he touches me compulsively—my cheeks, my throat, my shoulders. He doesn’t interrupt, but his hands hold a hard tremor, as if he’s controlling strong emotion through sheer effort. He must be furious, and I’ve seen the wreckage in the wake of his temper, haven’t I? All that broken furniture, left for me to tidy up.

  But the wrath I expect doesn’t erupt. Instead, Njål drops to his knees before me and rests his head against my knees. The broken sounds tell me that he’s crying, shoulders hunched in a way that hurts more than the stinging scrapes on my shins. Bewildered, I rest my hands on his hair, comforting him as best I can.

  At last he says, “Don’t risk yourself for me. I would rather be trapped for eternity than for you to suffer the slightest harm, especially for my sake.”

  20.

  “I’m here,” I tell Njål, though it’s clear that he’s not listening. “Safe and sound.”

  I end up stroking his head for a long while, until the shakes subside in us both. Since I’m entirely depleted, I would’ve gone to bed on an empty stomach, but he insists on cooking for me. He’s not good at it, and it’s difficult for him to use certain implements with his claws, but the fact that he’s trying? My heart quivers in my chest, and the last of the ice falls away. Eternal winter rules Bitterburn, but not my soul. Not anymore.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Njål asks eventually.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m afraid to say, in case it’s not true.”

  I prop my chin on my hand, hiding a smile in my palm. “Then hold on to that impression until you’re confident enough to be sure.”

  He makes a thin gruel without help from me, the type of porridge we often eat in the village, so I down it without savor. At least it’s hot and serves to drive away hunger. Wearily I stretch, watching Njål drink his from a cup, like it’s medicine.

  “You’re done in,” he says tenderly.

  And before I can respond, he lifts me in his arms and, oh, I’ve seen this hold before, usually a princess in a storybook being carried off by the charming knight who rescued her. Brewer’s assistants don’t get cradled like this and neither do witches, and it seems that I’m both. Of course, Njål more resembles the beast that the knight must best to win his lady love, so we’ve turned this fable entirely on its head.

  As I wrap my arms about his neck, I can’t claim that I mind. “Will you stay?”

  In answer, he tucks me beneath the covers and tends the fire, then he joins me, spooning up against my back so that I feel completely sheltered. The keep has quieted in my mind, evidently saving its whispers for when I’m more able to comprehend them. I hear the goats clattering about the kitchen, and I’ll probably regret letting them remain indoors when I’m scrubbing up the mess, but I’m currently too tired to care.

  I drop into sleep like I’m diving into deep water, and I emerge on the other side of time. Damn it, I have to stop dream-traveling. How am I supposed to recover when I expend energy asleep and awake?

  From the look of the keep, the party is over. This must be the next morning because the staff are still tidying up in the great hall and removing decorations. The floor is sticky with spilled wine and splattered food; I wonder how wild the revels got after Njål fled. Before, I had no control over where I went, but this time, I appear to be free.

  Nobody takes note of me, affirming my status as a time-ghost. I search for Njål, but instead of finding him, I arrive in the west tower, where the baroness holds her sewing circles. Five women occupy the space at present, and if it wasn’t for the terrifying monster holding court, it would be quite a pleasant room. Oriel windows let in the light, diffused by the leaded glass panes, and there are cushioned benches in addition to luxuriously upholstered chairs. All the baroness’s guests seem nervous, pricking their fingers about as much as they manage to embellish the embroidery in their laps.

  “It’s such a pity you can’t have children,” a young lady says in a breathless voice.

  The others flash her looks of such horror and dismay that the temperature drops inside the room, despite the fire crackling merrily in the brazier. One lady drops her sewing and takes an inordinately long time in collecting it.

  “Gilda!” An older woman presses the younger one’s arm, but she seems unwilling or unable to heed the warning.

  She chatters on, “You’re so lucky to have the baron. Most men would set aside a barren wife or at least choose a leman to provide him with a natural heir.”

  “You do not hesitate to speak your mind,” the baroness responds in an icy tone.

  “Not in the slightest! My mother despairs of me in that regard but it seems a great waste of time, never saying what one is truly thinking. For instance . . .” The girl locks eyes with the baroness, and I immediately reevaluate what’s happening here. “Did you know he came
to my room last night?”

  A collective intake of breath, and the rest of the women mumble excuses, gathering their embroidery, and then they flee like rabbits scenting wolves in the wind. Soon, only the baroness and this young challenger remain. She is, I admit, a beautiful girl, with ebony ringlets and sparkling eyes, and I admire her boldness even as I fear for her.

  She must be flattered by the attention, but I guarantee it won’t end as she expects.

  “You were saying?” the baroness prompts.

  “I finished my statement. You didn’t answer.”

  “As to whether I knew that my husband came to your private chambers?” The baroness smiles, and it’s the most chilling expression I’ve ever seen, all teeth and no joy, a dead hollow behind her eyes. “Of course I did, my dear. I’m the one who selected you.”

  That isn’t what Gilda expected to hear. Her fingers tighten on the cushion cover in her lap. “You . . . you’re lying.”

  “Why would I bother? I suspect you’d go quite mad if you knew the truth, so I’ll only share a piece of it. The baron does nothing without my permission. I studied all the options carefully last night and I determined that you would do. Then I informed him and he availed himself of your . . . amenities. A trial, if you will. He reported that you were most satisfactory, and that I should find myself most comfortable in your environs.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying at all! You . . . told him to—”

  “Yes, dear. He came to your bed with my blessing. That’s all you’re capable of grasping. Run along now, but don’t quit the keep in a fit of pique. You’ll fulfill the rest of your purpose soon enough.”

  Horror creeps over me. With what Njål has told me, I understand even if the girl doesn’t. This will be the baroness’s next body. I hurry after Gilda, but before I take more than two steps, the baroness speaks. “I sense you. I cannot see you, but I know you’re here. Mark me, I’ll find you, spy. And you will regret having moved against me.”