Why should the Seer care about me?
“Some of the traders warned Father about unrest in the kingdom. That’s why Mama stopped you from going sooner.”
I scowl at his back. “Unrest? What does that mean?”
His shoulders tense, and I just know there’s a grimace on his face, regret that he brought it up. “There’s been a war waging for years, Rooke, and it’s getting worse out there. It’s why Father stopped traveling so much and the traders have been coming less. I know the Seer has been asking for you, sending out calls to Mama, but Father was worried about the journey. He decided at the last moment that we’d go. I wonder now if he saw something in the flames—if the Fates spared us for something.”
The relief that blooms in my gut sours into guilt as it spreads up the back of my throat and chokes me. Everyone I know and love is dead, bar Pemba, and it’s a betrayal to them to feel such a way.
We fall into silence once more and focus on our footsteps. Tears track down my face, but I wipe them away without a word, careful not to let my brother see my despair.
When I’ve wept the last of the tears inside me, I murmur to Pemba the fear that has been on my mind. “What if something has happened, and we're no longer the Favored Children?”
Pemba sighs as he looks around slowly, surveying the canopy of greenery around us before he shrugs and hitches the heavy pack up a little farther on his back. “Then we find a new plan, and we follow it through. There are at least three covens we could make our way to on foot today that will take us in without question.”
He doesn't sound happy about it, and I already know why.
They would take us in because we are the last of our name, and each of them would have a long list of eligible men they would hope to pair me with. My brother wouldneversell me off to secure our safety, so I’m not worried about that. The other covens would also happily take him into the fold and marry him off to mix our heritage into their bloodlines, but the fact of the matter is that I was the Maiden. My power was handed down to me through generations of Ravenswyrd witches, chosen at birth to someday take on the mantle of the Mother when my mother passed into the role of the Crone. I can already perform acts of magic out of reach of most witches without really trying, and if we are to find shelter with another coven, it could pose a problem.
No one is going to let that power go lightly.
It never occurred to me to want anything else for my life. I loved my family and my coven. My role as the Maiden was a great honor and something I felt nothing but pride in. My magic was something to celebrate. I spent years learning from my mother how to heal and strengthen, how to bring life into this world safely, and how to gently ease the passing of those ready to go into Elysium. I’d learned what it meant to be a witch, how to perform the rites that nurture the lands and creatures around us, how to follow the laws of magic to protect everything the Fates have given us.
I wanted nothing more for myself than the life laid out for me, now snatched away so cruelly.
I hear the chirping of sparrows overhead. Rays of sunlight filter through the canopy of leaves above, touching my skin as the earth beneath my feet calls to me and centers me, calming the violent whirlwind of my mind. With every breath I feel the magic of the earth taking in my pain and sharing the load with me, soothing my frayed edges and being patient with me when the pain just keeps coming. The numb shell I’ve erected around myself to protect my brother from the full brunt of the chaos inside me doesn’t stop the forest from feeling it all with me.
I can’t hide from it no matter how hard I try.
By the time the sun is descending in the sky, nightfall creeping up on us, I hear the sounds of running water as we make our way to the river. We're close to where we need to stop for the night, close enough that we’ll have time to sit and share food between us in the daylight instead of fumbling around in the dark like we did last night.
We might even get to bathe.
I'm relieved at the thought of soaking in the river, the cold water soothing the knots and tender spots in my muscles, an enticing plan if ever I’ve had one.
I’ve never been one to care much about my appearance, but at the moment I probably look like an ogre or an orphaned goblin child, twigs and leaves in my tangled hair and dirt splattered on my face. I’ve seen enough of them in my time to know it isn’t a good look, especially not for someone of my standing. It’s important that I represent my family well—I don’t want to let my mother down, not over something as stupid and simple to fix as my unruly hair and dirt-soiled clothing.
Everything Pemba and I owned was lost in the fires, and we’re stuck wearing the same clothes we departed in and the few items we packed for the journey. On the first day of travel, before the fire, I tore a hole in my trousers. Pemba gave me his spare set, the only spare between us. He's taller than I am, and I'd made some adjustments to the fabric, rendering them useless to him now.
I’d packed my ceremonial robes, but I dressed my mother in them before we laid out her body on the funeral pyre, the only tradition we were able to observe that day. The fire took everything else, and even when Pemba tried to persuade me to keep the robes, I couldn’t.
I needed her to have them on her way to Elysium.
Now I don't even have a brush for my hair.
I almost feel ashamed that I will be going before the Seer in such a state, but honoring my mother meant more to me than my appearance.
When I mention all this to Pemba, he shrugs and tugs on one of the errant curls, wearing the cheeky grin that had once melted the hearts of all the girls in our coven with its charm. “I doubt the Seer expects you to look like a high fae, Rooke. You’re a Witch of the Woods—you’re supposed to look wild and free.”
When we arrive at the hollow, I see that my brother has made a good choice for our camp for the night. There isn't much to see if you aren’t looking for it. It's close enough to the river that there’s moss all over the ground, covering the exposed roots and fallen logs on the forest floor. It smells damp and musty, but the type of musty that smells likelifeand maybe just a little bit of magic.
The tree that we're here for is rooted farther up the riverbank, far enough that the water rising with the steady patter of rain isn't going to flood the area. There’s an ethereal feel to the space, a seductive taste of magic in the air that runs through my veins, calling out to me. The wood of the scepter warms in my hands, responding to the power here and I desperately want to drop it.
Only my deep respect for my mother’s memory stops me.
Pemba is confident as he leads me to the hollowed-out tree. He’s been here before with my father on one of their treks, and it’s the perfect spot to stop for the night. Even if someone else were to venture off the path to refill their tankards in the river, they wouldn't be able to see us. For the first time today, I start to think that maybe we’ll be safe here for the night.
As safe as we can be.
