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Chapter 13
Viola
Ishouldhavegivenup my watch long ago, but I do not feel tired enough to justify waking Max, and I do not trust Tulip to oversee while I sleep. I busy myself digging through my pack, searching for the stone talisman my father had given me. The conversation with Max and Tulip’s arrival has triggered some less-than-spectacular memories of my parents, so I need some comfort.
My fingers brush across the Witch’s Ladder, and I feel it buzz like it comes alive at my stroke. I glance around, double-checking to ensure my companions are still sleeping and see the shadows stretching long as the moon journeys across the sky. The hum of power radiating from the Witch’s Ladder crawls up my arms, a chill encasing me despite the thickness of the summer air.
I stretch it out on the dirt in front of me, fingers tracing over the knots and feathers stretching its length. Each feather is a different color, and I cannot help but wonder what each spell within them contains. I wrack my brain back to the book on Seasonale my father had, trying to remember some of the Winter powers that could be included in these feathers.
Some of the powers Winter Seasonale possessed were more obvious, like ice and snow manipulation, most likely contained in the bright blue feather. I suspect the solid black one contains the magic of shadow shifting. There could be some use to those, but I cannot think of a situation immediately. I do remember reading about some of the more rare and heavily regulated forms of Winter – curses and blood magic.
Curses and their effects are well known and documented, but anyone with curse magic remained hidden away - it’s hard to walk the streets when your very word can doom someone.
Hardly any literature exists in human libraries on blood magic. I’ve heard rumors that one drop of your blood could have your future told, your past exposed. If a single drop of blood could read the past and future of a person, imagine what they could do with a knife.
Much is still unknown about the Seasonale’s magic and those of their lessers. It was in the nature of the fae to hold some of their powers to their chest. The God’s powers were known, and the fae contained lesser versions of that power. But does a God reveal all their secrets?
Somehow, I sincerely doubt it.
The secrecy is especially true of Winter magic. Himureal, known as the Frostweaver, was notoriously private, and there had not been a practitioner of Winter in centuries. Even the lesser magics under Winter disappeared without a trace. But if the history books are correct, all practitioners of Winter magic were highly secretive due to the dark nature of their power.
In addition to the blue and black feathers, I see a solid white one, small and delicate, a smokey gray that is inflexible and rigid, and a curved feather, the color of twilight, soft and as gentle as a breeze. My fingers linger on the final feather, and I cannot bring myself to remove my hand from its smooth surface. It isn’t very long, the vane about the length of my finger, but its calamus was a sharp point of shining obsidian almost as long as my hand. The plumes were dark red, with veins of black creeping through them as if it were an infection. Something about the feather calls to me, and I drag my fingers down the shaft of it, relishing the downy feeling of the afterfeathers.
I’m immediately struck by an overwhelming urge to untie the feather and see what happens when I release whatever spell is contained within. The feeling is all-encompassing, singing directly into my soul, and my body is responding.
I flashback to the hollow rock outcropping, filled with Amio’s blood and the dank, stale air that is left after a storm. My memory hitches, lingering on the moment I stood in the puddle of his deep crimson blood, and it lapped against my shoes. I knew I should feel unsettled, but instead, I felt a calmness steady me. I could feel in that moment the weight of Amio’s animosity for me, the lengths he would have gone to destroy me had I let him live. It bolstered my knowledge that I made the right call to end his life.
My fingers stroking up and down the shaft of the feather, I can almost hear the blood rushing in my ears and coursing in my veins. I shudder involuntarily and drop the feather, which quickly douses the heat within me. I pick it back up, and its siren song pulls me in once more.
Father’s books detailed the risks of using magic and the toll it took on the spellcaster’s bodies, and that’s when they knew what they were casting. What could await me if I untie an unknown spell and release it into the world? There had to be a reason Jaz’s family kept this Ladder all these years, and it could not be because the spells conjure a gentle snowstorm.
I have almost convinced myself to untie it just to see what magic it can provide me with. The rationalizations I go through could make my back hurt with the stretches I make. I tell myself that casting one when I am on my own is safer because I would be the only one affected. But that inkling in the back of my head, honed from years of looking over my shoulder, tells me I need to save this for a time when the dangers of the Race come for me.
When Max stirs awake, I swipe the Ladder behind my back, shielding it from her view. I cannot explain why, but I don’t want Max to know I have this. Max has always distrusted the Seasonale, and it is not a misplaced distrust. They have never been anything but adversaries in all our lives. But she has held a reverence for the Gods that I never understood. The Gods have forsaken us, but she continues believing that they are looking out for us.
She would force me to get rid of the Ladder - especially if she realizes I stole it from Jaz. This feels like a betrayal of all the promises I’ve made Max, and I wrestle with that decision to keep this from her. The familiar weight of hiding something from my best friend settles itself back onto my shoulders, welcoming me home to a place I never wanted to put down roots.
But the Ladder calls to me as if its magic needs me.
Max rubs sleep from her eyes, rising to a sitting position to peer at me. “First light doesn’t seem that far away, Vi. Why didn’t you wake me?”
I shrug as I swiftly pack my things back up. “You seemed like you needed it. You can take over now, I was just organizing my bag to make it easier to carry.”
She nods and stretches her limbs out as I head over to the grassy area where she had been sleeping moments before. The grass is still warm from her body, and tiny Tulip is snoring away, blissfully unaware of the dangers the world holds for us. Using my pack as a makeshift pillow, I lay down, willing myself to sleep.
Rest does not come easily, but eventually, I drift into a fitful sleep filled with images of blood flowing down Amio’s chest, threatening to drown me.
Chapter 14
Zeph
Istepslowlyintoa clearing within the forest, my senses alive with the surrounding tranquility. A small grotto nestled between rocks and trees creates a sanctuary before me. Moonlight and stars cast their ethereal glow, illuminating the space with a delicate shimmer. Although I’m certain of my solitude, an inexplicable sensation that I am not alone creeps up my spine.
On one side of the clearing, fragments of magic linger in the air, calling to me to gather them. They draw me in, and I am unable to resist their call. I extend my hands, and they respond, forming a swirling pool within my grasp. Drops of crimson and delicate flakes of ice dance together, a beautiful mixture swirling in my palm.
But as the magic permeates me, my own powers stir, a tumultuous roar of conflicting desires. They urge me not to consume these elements, a revulsion against the calling of my mind. I gaze at the magic as it threatens to spill out of my hold. I long to indulge, to take this magic into my body and mingle it with my own. It feels destined and like it belongs to me. My magic thrashes within me in response, revolting against the very idea.
In a moment of reckless abandon, I surrender to my yearning and greedily drink down the magic in my palms.
