Page 93 of The Filigree Key

Whether or not Ossian believed my words, he released me. If anything, he seemed a little unsettled that I hadn’t addressed the warnings he’d given me.

“Let’s go,” he barked.

He led me to a part of the castle I hadn’t explored before—the widow’s walk. Or, I supposed, the clock tower of the courthouse if I was viewing it without his illusion.

When he shouldered open the door, a violent gust of wind roared down the spiral staircase. I grabbed the railing for support even as green magic rooted me to the stair. The tepid warmth of the castle fled, and goose flesh pimpled my skin. The heart of the magic oak tree ignited red and flooded me with heat. Grim-faced, the Stag Man forced himself outside, leading with his antlers as if to saw apart the air itself.

Gritting my teeth, I followed and pushed the door shut behind me. Another gust tried to twirl me like an overenthusiastic dance partner; I snatched hold of the metal railing and caught my balance. Overhead, the sky was grayer than it had been yesterday. The first snow of the impending winter was coming.

Below us, the town of Redbud rolled along gentle hills. The square seemed like children’s building blocks, the red barns of the hamlets farther away like miniature jars of strawberry jam. There were brown forests with splotches of green, the beige fields of cropped corn stalks, swaths of yellowing pasture, a whole spiderweb network of glistening creeks.

Caught up in the strange beauty of it all, I asked Ossian, “Is this anything like Elfame?”

The Stag Man was quiet, his jaw set. Then, bitterly: “If it were anything like my home, I would not be so impatient to leave.”

He turned towards me, his broad body blocking the worst of the wind. It played madly in his curls, tossing them up against his antlers.

“Your final element, Meadow Ní Violet,” the Stag Man said. “Can you guess its true nature?”

“Before or after I get tossed over the side?” I snarked.

He grinned, looking so handsome it pained me he was so vicious and cruel. Unfair was the word that came to mind.

“You’re not far off.” He lifted a muscled arm, drawing my attention to how the wind buffeted it even as he held himself taut. “Wind is pure, unadulterated potential. Gentle enough to scatter seeds, strong enough to conjure hurricanes. It controls the weather, shapes climates, redefines landscapes.”

The Stag Man lowered his arm. “It is the spirit of wild horses running free. It is that swell inside you when you look over the edge of a cliff and wonder if you can fly. It is the sensation of a lifelong dream finally coming true.”

“How,” I asked with steel in my voice, “am I to master that? I had a hard enough time grasping the magnitude of water. But this?”

I’d thrown my arm out to gesture to the wide expanse only to have the wind wrench it behind my back.

“Thistle thorns,” I cursed even as relief set in after the oak tree healed the sprain.

“Should I get your cat?” he asked. “Throw him over the side to give you the proper motivation? Worked wonders last time.”

“You can’t hurt him,” I ground out.

“But a Brother could.”

His lips twitched into a smirk in response to my glower. Then I ignored him, holding on to the railing with both hands and leaning out to feel the full force of the storm winds. Closing my eyes, I sifted through every memory I had of my father performing magic.

Tod Hawthorne. I actually didn’t even know his birth name. He’d adopted a new name upon marrying my mother to show his allegiance. Tod, after the fox, which had more to do with his personality than his magic. He had air magic mixed in with his green, but he’d never taught us about it. Hawthornes were green and hearth witches, that was it. Those were the traits that Grandmother cultivated; everything else was weeded out, no matter how useful. It was why Uncle Stag with his weather magic never taught any classes or performed any magic in public unless it was necessary. He and my father were essential to keep the bloodline healthy, but their proficiencies with different magics were not.

The times I’d seen my father release his air magic were few. But there was something in his eyes every time he called upon it—a twinkle. Like mischief. Like a clever secret. Like triumph. I wondered if it was because he was able to control such a fickle thing as wind magic, or if it was purely the sensation he enjoyed.

He wasn’t here to counsel me or train me, so I reflected on Ossian’s words. Potential. He’d proven in the past that he only grasped one aspect of the element I was trying to master. His perception of the element was flawed, but it had always given me a starting point.

Well, potential was far too abstract a concept to truly understand. Opening my eyes, I sought inspiration in the landscape. These four elements were interconnected—it was why I could harness them as a primal witch. Perhaps it was that relationship that would reveal the true nature of air to me.

It swept rain from the oceans to the land—water.

It literally fed fire.

It strengthened trees and spread their seeds, weathered mountains to bring nutrients to the lowlands, plowed the soil to make room for new growth—earth.

It really was potential.

With a frustrated growl, I released a loud exhale and stopped short as realization swept over me.