Magic shot through her in an electrifying pulse and spread, tingling, through her body, spilling from inside out. Beside her Ignata swayed. Catherine murmured the chant like the soft whisper of the wind through the leaves.
Grandmother Az’s words streamed through her mind. Don’t give in. Don’t forget who you are.
The magic swirled within her and rushed out, like the tide, sucked into the mound.
The seeds moved. Their outer shells cracked. Tiny green roots thrust through, pale and fragile.
The magic poured out of Cerise in a heady rush, feeding the plants.
The roots thickened, raising the seeds, burrowing deep into the bloody mud, turning brown. Green sprigs spiraled up, twisting about the pole, biting into Lagar’s body with green shoots, climbing higher and higher.
Sweat broke out on Cerise’s forehead, mixing with the mud.
Leaves burst on the shoots, bright, vivid, their tiny veins red like Lagar’s blood. Lagar’s corpse disappeared beneath the blanket of green.
A deep ache gnawed at her insides. The mound demanded more magic. More. More.
Buds sprung from the greenery and split open. Flowers unfurled, yellow and white and pale purple, sending dizzying perfume into the air. It swirled around Cerise, sweet like honey. A giddy happiness flooded her. So beautiful … Her body swayed, dancing. She tried to stop herself, but her limbs escaped her control.
Catherine crashed to her knees and laughed softly.
Mom … Dad … Focus. Focus, damn it. Cerise bent over the mound and spat onto the leaves. “Wake.”
The green mass shivered. A muted roar rolled through the clearing as if a dozen ervaurgs declared their territory all at once. Magic shot through the leaves, ancient, powerful, and hungry. So hungry.
Lagar’s face thrust through the rustling leaves, framed in the cascade of flowers, his skin dusted with golden pollen.
Raste Adir had answered the call.
Lagar’s eyes glowed with verdant wild green. Thin shoots snaked from his body, hidden beneath the moss and leaves, reaching out to her, ready to drain her dry, filling her mind with promises. Cerise saw herself caught in the branches, her body a dry husk, one with the green; saw the shoots surge further, saw kneeling Catherine become a spire of green; saw Ignata lifted off her feet by a vine, her face serene and lost among the blossoms …
Cerise jerked back, raising her defenses. No. You get back!
The old magic hovered just beyond reach. Its pull was so strong.
On the ground Catherine sobbed, happy tears spilling from her eyes. The vines reached for her.
Cerise stepped in front of them and gathered her magic. It rose behind her in a dark cloud, splaying forth. The shoots shrank back, shivering.
That’s right. Get back, stay in your place.
Cerise squared her shoulders. She was a swamp witch like her grandmother and her grandmother’s mother and her grandmother’s grandmother before her. She had skill and she had power, and the old magic wouldn’t wrestle her mind from her.
“Where is my mother?”
Lagar’s mouth opened. A cloud of pollen erupted from his throat, swirling in a glittering cascade like golden dust.
“Answer me.”
Ignata made a small mewing noise behind her.
A shimmer ran through the pollen. An image rose within the cloud: a vast field of water with a lonely gray rock rising out of it like the back of some beast, and beyond it, a hint of a large house … Bluestone Rock. Only a day away!
The branches reached for her. She snapped her witch’s cloak and they fell back.
“Where is my father?”
The pollen shifted. No image troubled the cloud—Lagar didn’t know.
“What does Spider want from our family?”
The branches swirled, winding tighter and tighter. Lagar’s eyes flared with dark green like two swamp fire stars. Something burned deep in that glow, something terrible and powerful, clawing its way to the surface.
“Obey!” Cerise snapped.
The pollen glittered once again, shifting into a tattered notebook … It looked like one of Grandfather’s journals.
Lagar’s body split like an opening flower. Dark blue tentacles sprouted from it, streaming to her through the image in the pollen.
She pushed her magic before her like a shield. The tentacles smashed into it with a ghostly howl. The pressure nearly pushed her off her feet.
“Run!”
Behind her Ignata grabbed Catherine and pulled her up to her feet. Cerise backed away. Her nose bled. Her head grew dizzy.
“Clear!” someone called. She stumbled out of the circle. The tentacles flailed behind her, reached the ash, and shrunk, shriveling.
“Burn it!” Richard stepped into the circle and hurled gasoline onto the leaves from a bucket. Someone flicked a match. The greenery went up in flames.
A howl of pain burst from Lagar. He screamed like a living thing being burned alive.
Catherine sobbed, rocking back and forth.
Cerise curled into a ball and tried to block out Lagar’s cries. Now they knew. Now they knew where to look.
KAITLIN opened the lid of a mother-of-pearl box. Her fingers brushed the treasures within. A lock of Lagar’s blond hair, cut when he was a child. The tip from the first arrow Peva had shot. One of Arig’s twigs … She remembered when Peva had told him that his fingers were too weak for a good draw, and for a while wherever Arig went, he had a twig in his hands and would be snapping little pieces off of it.
She pursed her lips. Where did she go wrong? How could she have raised weak sons that had failed her?
She looked up at the mirror that hung on the wall and touched the wrinkled skin around her eyes. Old … She had grown old. She had given all of herself to her children. That’s what a mother was supposed to do. And they failed her.
Kaitlin glared at her reflection. Her skin may be sagging. Her hair may be graying. But her will was iron. It was in her eyes, just like her father used to say. “You have iron in your eyes, Kaitlin. You’re strong. Life will hurt you, but you’ll survive, my daughter. The iron doesn’t give in.”
She squared her shoulders. There were magics she could work. Dark things, vicious, forbidden things she could let loose on the Rat pack. And all of the old crone’s magic couldn’t save them then. Oh, the Guard would come, and the militia would gather and whine about the outlawed magic. Let them come. She would hold them off.
Perhaps she could even start anew. Time had robbed her of her fertility, but there were plenty of children in the Mire. She could pay some woman for a good strong child, and Kaitlin would have another son. And this time, she would make no mistakes.
She turned to the couch where she had left her shawl and frowned when it wasn’t there. For a moment she searched and then saw it hanging over the porch railing, where she had stood this morning seeing Arig off.
Strange.
She felt around for a trace of foreign magic and found none. The shield of wards stretching from her house remained intact. Besides, none would dare to enter her domain. Nobody would be that stupid.
Kaitlin strode onto the porch, tiny sparks of power breaking over her skin. She passed her hand over the shawl. Nothing. Not spelled in any way, the pattern as intricate as ever. She must’ve forgotten it here on the porch.
Kaitlin lifted the shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and stood for a moment, breathing in the Mire smells. The afternoon was winding down. Soon the night would fall. The dark time. The Rats would be in their Rathole, celebrating, bloated with wine and success. She had a few things to show them.
A faint prickling in her hand made her glance at her fingers. Thin gray residue sheathed her fingertips. She stared at it, puzzled, rubbed her fingers with her thumb, and gasped as the skin and muscle peeled off.
Shocked, she whirled, searching for traces of offensive spells, chanting to raise her defenses. Power surged and formed a reassuring, solid wall of magic to guard her from the world. She could chant herself out of it. Again and again she whispered, but the skin on her fingers refused to heal.