“A Witch Does Not Cower In Fear” (Part 2 of 2) A Novelette By C. A. Brown « PekoeBlaze

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Hilda returned to the dining hall two hours later, her eyes hurt slightly. No-one had stopped to talk to her when she perused the dusty bookshelves lining each room and corridor. Most of the older books didn’t even had their name on the spines. Just plain leather.

Despite the beautiful sweet-toffee smell of the old paper, each one gave her a face full of dust when she opened them. Some were treatises on restorative herbs, printed in almost indecipherable Fraktur. Some were filled with charts documenting the movement of the suns. She’d gotten totally side-tracked for twenty minutes reading half of an old reprint of the slender journal of Agnes Bauer, one of the first generation of initiates into the coven house.

Back then, when Monika Schwarzrabe was still Arch-Mother, the coven had been a lot more informal. You got initiated a week after joining and most of the witches just spent their time comparing spells, teaching each other and writing books. There were debates about how to conceal the growing building from the villagers, whether it needed a moat or whether everyone needed to carry a messer. Agnes seemed to be in the anti-sword camp, pointing out that none of the witches had trained with them and that “To lower ourselves to swords or clubs would be to use the crude tools of those who would burn us. What use, then, would we have for magic?“.

Conscious of the time, Hilda had flipped through the rest of the book as quickly as she could. Agnes made no mention of the coven being built upon a source of magical energy. No mention of where the magic came from. Part of her mind told her that, at the time, everyone in the coven clearly already knew. That there would be no point writing it down. Still, it seemed strange that there wasn’t even a passing mention in the entire book.

And then the bells had rung out for lunch. She still wasn’t used to it. Actual manual bells, rung by some poor candidate with ringing ears.

The dining hall was quieter than usual. Hilda picked up a metal plate, a metal cup and some cutlery from the pile and stood in line behind the lower initiates. The line seemed shorter than it had done yesterday. She didn’t recognise the lower initiate in front of her.

At the far end of the hall, the Arch-Mother – in her red robes – sat with a group of older witches. They ate the same rations as everyone else, an old gesture from the third-hand stories of sailing ships Hilda remembered from her peasant days. The captain always ate the same food as the crew. It helped to prevent mutinies.

The line moved forwards slowly. Hilda wondered if a mutiny would end up happening here eventually. She glanced over at the Arch-Mother’s table again. The tables surrounding it were still left deferentially empty by everyone. Even without magic, the unspoken rules continued by inertia alone. Hilda let out a silent sigh of relief. Agnes was right. We’d be no better than peasants if we rose up.

Ten minutes later, Hilda reached the serving table. Novitiate Annelise Aber sat behind the jars with a warm smile on her freckled face. Hilda put her plate down and smiled back. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Good. Do you mind having more peach slices and one less salt-meat strip? Sorry, whoever packed today’s jars obviously ate a few themselves.”

Hilda giggled and nodded. It was impossible to be angry at Annelise. Probably why she was chosen for the job.

Annelise picked out a gnarled black strip of dried meat from a jar half-filled with grey-white salt. She ladled out pickled peaches onto the other side of the plate. Then, after wrapping a rag around one of her hands, she picked up a long knife by both ends and set it against a half-finished wheel of hard cheese. She stood up and put her whole body into the chop. The dry flaky slice was almost perfectly even. Finally, she filled Hilda’s cup with red wine from a green bottle.

Hilda smiled again. “Thanks.”

“Have a good dinner. Next!”

Hilda scanned the tables near the back of the hall for an empty seat. By now, the sullen rabble of candidates had begun to join the back of the line. Their robes were scuffed and dusty from scrabbling around with seeds and farming tools in the catacombs. From the look of utter defeat in their eyes, it was clear who would be washing the plates tonight. Hilda tried not to smile too much. Better them than me. She kept looking at the tables.

There were actual empty tables in the novitiates’ segment of the hall. More desertions? Three of the tables were full. Magda sat alone on one of the empty tables. Hilda walked over to her. “Mind if I sit here?”

Magda shrugged. “May as well.”

Hilda sat opposite her and started on the hard cheese. It wasn’t too bad actually. Went well with the wine too. The salt-meat was as chewy as ever. Between bites, Hilda said: “I’m looking through all of the books here to see if there’s anything that could help with the wands, did you know that...”

Magda frowned and lowered her voice. “That it isn’t just the wands?”

Hilda nodded. “How did you work it out?”

“You’ve never read ‘Greta And The Prince’s Guard’? She doesn’t use a wand once in that book.”

“Really. I mean, I’ve been meaning to read it but… do the spells in it actually work?”

“Well, they changed the words. Probably to stop the rabble over there.” She pointed at the weary and dejected candidates who had started to reach the serving table by now. “To stop the rabble copying them, but it wasn’t too difficult to change them back. And, no, nothing.”

Something flickered in the back of Hilda’s mind. “Sorry, this is going to sound strange, but do you think they changed the books for us too?” She lowered her voice further. “The ones in the halls. I’ve only glanced through a couple of shelves, but there’s nothing about where magic comes from.”

Magda took a sip of wine. Something gleamed in her dark brown eyes. “Nah. They probably just keep all of the good books for the upper ranks. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Hilda froze. Her mind scrabbled for an answer. One part wanted to shout “YES” loudly enough that even the Arch-Mother could hear. Another part told her that, even if the protective wards had run out of juice, there were still the physical locks. Another part told her that getting thrown out of the coven would make her a peasant again. She looked away from Magda. “I’m… I’m not sure if we need to do that yet.”

“Well, when we do, give me a shout. I’ve been messing around with lockpicks. I can get my strongbox open faster than with the key.” Magda paused and lowered her voice even further. “Meet up with me in the garden at three.”

Hilda froze for a moment. Then she nodded.

—————–

By the blue light of Classanda’s wand, the shiny red paint on the door looked almost as purple as the walls around it. She looked around the narrow windowless corridor at the top of the stairs. It seemed like a waste of space. It seemed like it curved around half of the circumference of the tower.

She reached for the door handle and turned it. Locked. The obvious course of action would be to return to the floor below and search for the key. Or maybe get the door open with a spell?

Still, it seemed rude not to knock. Rude not to knock thrice and shout “Hello“.

Silence.

Classanda blushed and turned away. With the curved walls at her sides, there wasn’t even the pink glow from the floor below to guide her back. There were no lanterns mounted on the walls, magical or paraffin. It’s just a corridor. You can navigate by feel.

The only explanation Classanda could think of was that the corridor must have been added after the tower was built. But why brick up the window which would have been here? Like everything else about the Ruby Outpost, it made no sense. She let out a deep sigh and began walking back towards the stairs. Then she heard it. A fast, shuffling movement behind her. Her heart hammered. She clenched the wand and spun around.

There was just the door. Her mind raced for explanations. What if a bird got in through one of the windows? Did you actually see any birds in the desert? No, you didn’t.

Classanda kept the wand levelled at the door and backed away slightly. More shuffling noises, getting quieter as if something was moving away from the door. Her throat felt dry. Part of her mind told her to stay silent, to leave and walk back to the coven. Whatever is behind that door already knows you’re here. You don’t have a blue light to guide you back.

She took a deep breath and remembered her lessons. A witch does not cower in fear. It felt like there was an icicle stuck in her chest. A witch does not cower in fear. The glowing blue tip of her wand trembled and shook, casting flickering shadows on the purple walls. A witch does not cower in fear. Her sweaty palm almost slipped on the wand. A witch does not cower in fear.

Classanda forced the words out of her mouth. They were scratchy at first, gradually rising into a sharp shout. “Open this door! Show yourself!”

Silence.

Classanda took a deep breath. She stood slightly taller. “I know you’re there!”

Silence. She strode forwards and tried the door again. Still locked.

Keeping her wand pointed in the direction of the door, Classanda backed away along the corridor, only turning around and running when the door was hidden behind the curved wall. The bright pink light of the stairway beckoned to her. She almost forgot to grab the cold metal railing. Almost tripped over her black robes. Almost lost her pointy hat.

She slowed down and took the rest of the stairs carefully, constantly listening to the silence behind her. When she got to the bottom, she spun around and pointed her wand towards the top of the stairs. Darkness there, and nothing more.

The second floor room was completely untouched. The pile of blank letters still sat on the desk. Her satchel still sat on the floor. Bright pink midday light streamed through the arched windows. It almost seemed reassuring. Classanda extinguished her wand before walking over to the desk and checking the other drawers. The second one was filled with cracked pieces of brittle paper. Nothing was written on them. The third drawer was locked. A flicker of a smile crossed Classanda’s face.

She went over to her satchel and pulled the single-edged utility knife out of it. It was six inches long with a drop point. A drop point which was just about thin enough to fit between the drawer and the frame. Putting her hand to the back of the blade, she gave the latch a hard shove. It didn’t budge. She put her whole body into the next shove. The blade grated off the edge of the latch and slashed the leg of the chair. Classanda stilled her trembling hands and shoved the blade into the gap on the other side of the latch. It yielded easily.

The drawer was stiff and creaky. A small pile of golden guilders gleamed at the back of it. She almost missed the keys. The old warded keys were coated with flaking black paint and orange spots of rust. They looked like the shell of a poisonous beetle. There were three of them. One must be for downstairs. One must be for upstairs. And the other? Classanda felt her heart quicken again. She dropped the keys and the knife into her satchel and slung it over her shoulder.

Her mind raced again. Upstairs or downstairs?

A witch does not cower in fear. Classanda illuminated the tip of her wand with a flick of her wrist and grabbed the railing. She forced herself to go upstairs, keeping her wand pointed at the darkness ahead. Nothing stirred in the curved corridor. Her chest felt ice-cold. Her footsteps echoed in the silence. The red door remained firmly shut.

Classanda fumbled through her satchel for the keys, almost catching the edge of her sweaty hand on the unsheathed knife. The first key didn’t fit the lock. Neither did the second. The third key was cold in her palm. She pushed it into the lock and tried to turn it. Nothing. It wouldn’t budge. The noise that emerged from her mouth was halfway between a sigh and a gasp. She dropped the keys back into the satchel and hurried back to the stairs.

She descended as quickly as possible, wary of the darkness behind her. When she got back to the second floor, Classanda strode across it as quickly as she could. It was only when her palm clasped the railing of the other staircase that she heard the unmistakable clack from upstairs. It almost sounded as loud as a crossbow.

—————–

The walled garden of the East Point coven had started to die as soon as the wands had stopped working. Shrivelled fruit hung from dry stems. Orange leaves littered the yellowed grass. Not even the candidates bothered pouring water onto the parched soil any more. It had pooled and flooded and turned stagnant and evaporated all within the space of a day. An emergency plan to divert the sewage system to the flowerbeds was, fortunately, personally vetoed by the Arch-Mother.

It was not, Hilda thought as she sat on the stone bench, vetoed because of health or sanitation. Even without the magic, there had been no outbreak here. No need for emergency infirmaries, for doling out potions made from dead herbs. Perhaps it was the isolation? Perhaps it was spending so much time indoors?

Hilda liked to think that it was the witches’ expectations that warded off disease. Yes, everyone in the coven had old memories of sickness and plague. Of carts rolling across muddy village streets, of the sackcloth-clad man ringing his bell. Bring out your dead! All of them had heard the racking coughs of the infected, seen the scars of the pox or smelled the stench of the flux. But that was another place, with other rules.

Hilda just knew that the Arch-Mother had vetoed those plans because of the memories. Because the coven house was the only place that didn’t smell of dung and wood smoke and everything else that the peasants got used to. And, if that meant leaving the garden to die, then so may it be.

Her eyes scanned the shrivelled, dried landscape. She didn’t miss the heavy smell of pollen that made her eyes water, or the few emaciated bees that buzzed and swooped through the air. She didn’t miss the little cliques of witches sitting on the once verdant lawn, with grass tall enough to act like a cushion. She didn’t miss the singing or the annoying candidates chasing each other across the lawn between rota duties. The garden may have been dead but, for now, it may as well have been her own garden.

Hilda looked up at the turrets and towers of the coven house, silhouetted against the luminous pink clouds. It looked like a combination of a castle and a wooden mansion of some sort. But there was a strange beauty to its points and its mixed materials. Still, it was always strange seeing the building from the outside. Despite its towering height, Hilda never remembered seeing it on the horizon when she was a peasant girl. She wasn’t sure if this was the result of enchantments, or strategically placing the building behind one of the hills visible from the village or – as she sometimes thought – that it formed itself purely to give her somewhere other than the village to live in. Somewhere better.

Her gaze returned to the door. Even without a clock, Magda seemed late. Perhaps she had gotten nervous about her idea? Perhaps she was doing extra practice with her lockpicks?

Either way, Hilda was starting to realise that Magda had a point. In just two more hours of searching the bookshelves, she hadn’t found even a single word about the origin of magic or how to generate it. Lots of fascinating distractions – travel journals, botanical tomes, witches’ memoirs and even a book of basic healing spells – but nothing useful. In fact, she had even gotten a few funny looks from the other novitiates for actually reading the decorative books.

No, Magda was right. If there was any useful knowledge, it was hidden in the upper initiates’ quarters. Hilda felt something sink in the pit of her stomach. Whilst Magda would be able to bypass the locks, neither of them had a map of the quarters. No way of knowing exactly which book to read or even how many of the upper initiates would even be there.

The more she thought about it, the more impossible the whole plan seemed. Even if they snuck in at midnight, the light needed to read the books would probably wake someone. People would notice if the books went missing as well.

No, Hilda thought, the sensible thing would be just to wait until the wands get repaired or until something happens to restore magic to the coven. This whole thing was silly. She got up from the bench. Her shoes crunched on the dry leaves.

Then, before she could take another step, they appeared in the doorway. Two upper initiates, walking in perfect lockstep. Hilda vaguely recognised one of them from the dining room, a woman in her fifties with wavy chin-length blonde hair. In another world, Hilda thought, the woman could have been her mother. Both women were frowning. Both of them were staring straight at Hilda.

A witch does not cower in fear. Hilda forced herself to smile and walk over to them. “Sorry, I didn’t realise that the garden was off-limits.”

“It is not.”

“Novitiate Brunhilda Grünberg, the Arch-Mother wishes to speak to you. Immediately.”

—————–

Classanda kept her wand pointed at the top of the stairs, ready to shoot flames or lightning at whatever emerged from the unlocked room. Nothing. No footsteps. Still keeping the wand trained on the dark mouth of the upstairs corridor, she put her satchel down and walked over to the sword-rack. It didn’t hurt to have a backup. She went for the shortest of the swords, a single-edged messer. Little more than a long knife with a single horizontal nail jutting out an inch from the top of the hilt.

Classanda felt the weight of it in her hand and sliced the air in front of her with it, putting her whole body into the swing. It reminded her of the farm, the little hand-axe she had used to chop firewood alongside her father, at least before the baron’s men had shown up with their swords to demand extra taxes.

She had gotten one of them in the shin with it when he wasn’t looking. She could still remember the screams and the blood and the panic. The other men unsure whether to help their comrade or to laugh at him for being bested in combat by a little girl. It had been a good enough diversion for both of them to flee. Her father had told her that he would go further west after giving her to a local woman who knew someone who knew someone at the coven.

Classanda shook her head. Ages ago. She kept her wand in one hand and the messer in the other as she carefully climbed the exposed stairs. A witch does not cower in fear.

When she reached the top, she kept the sword point extended as she flicked her wand and illuminated the tip. In the pale blue light, the curved corridor looked exactly as it had done before. She advanced step-by-step, poised to strike at the first sign of movement. Nothing. Just the door.

Classanda put the sword into the belt of her robes and reached for the handle. She pulled it open in one creaking moment, leaping back and pointing her wand into the darkness beyond. Nothing rushed out at her. She blinked a couple of times and walked closer to the doorway. Her eyes widened. It was beautiful.

In the pale blue light of her wand, it looked like a stained glass window had shattered across the night sky. It looked like the after-images she saw whenever she closed her eyes. Shards of blue, orange, green and red glass hung and gleamed in the gloom. A large diamond disc glittered in the distance like a moon from another world. It took her a moment to notice that the walls were painted solid black and studded with small gems that sparkled like a rainbow of stars.

The dark floor at her feet was speckled with little golden discs that looked like coins scattered at the bottom of the deepest ocean. Classanda stepped forwards, the changing light setting off a scintillation of glares and reflections. Although she had cast more spells than she remembered, this was the first time that everything felt truly magical. She wished that she knew how to paint or draw, or had some way to record this beauty for all time.

Classanda caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and jumped. Her heart sped up again. Just a reflection. She walked over the curved piece of blue glass dangling in mid-air and looked at her distorted face, unsure whether to laugh or feel frightened. Her reflection looked stretched and squashed. Her eyes were the shape of playing-card diamonds. She looked away. The blue light of her wand caught a perfect diagonal line of hanging rubies that got smaller as they stretched upwards towards the inky void of the ceiling.

Then she saw it. A thin square of pink light in the middle of the ceiling, the glowing lines almost looked as thin as hairs. A trapdoor. Classanda raised the short sword and, standing on tiptoes, prodded at it until the tip of the blade caught the groove. She almost fell over. Almost staggered into a sharp-looking piece of emerald as she probed for the latch. The sword caught something. She gave it as much of a push as she could. It yielded. The trapdoor fell open.

In an instant, the illusion was broken. A giant column of pink light descended from the open square in the ceiling, revealing the thin wires that held the gemstones and stained glass in mid-air, the careless brush-strokes of black paint on the walls. Classanda squinted at the open trapdoor until she saw the rolled-up rope ladder to one side of it. Her feet ached as she stood on tiptoes again and tried to catch it with the tip of her sword. After a couple of feeble swings and jabs, she speared one of the wooden rungs and pulled the ladder down.

She took a few deep breaths and listened for footsteps above the pounding of her heart. Nothing. Putting her sword in her belt and keeping her wand between her teeth, she began to climb the swaying ladder. Despite her sweaty palms and her calf-length robes, she climbed as quickly as she could, more than conscious of the fact that someone could be waiting upstairs with a weapon pointed at the opening. They would have the advantage if she stayed on the ladder for too long.

As soon as the unpainted edges of the floorboards crossed her vision, Classanda looked around. It was a smaller circular chamber with bright white paint on the walls. There was a shiny golden door on a flattened segment of the walls. She climbed up as fast as she could, almost catching the sword on the edge of the trapdoor. And, as soon as she stood up, she saw it. The chamber roof was made out of clear glass with a strange jagged ripple pattern on it. Like someone had dropped a pebble onto the sheet of molten glass before flash-freezing it with a spell. Even though pink clouds could still be seen at the edges, the middle of the strange glass rings gleamed as brightly as one of the suns.

Classanda drew her sword and took the wand out of her mouth. She kept her back to the white walls and stood to the side of the golden door. Extending her sword-hand sideways, she knocked on it twice with the end of the handle. Then she heard footsteps.

—————–

The Arch-Mother regarded Hilda with cold silence from across the golden desk. Hilda said nothing and kept a smile on her face. The tall arched windows in the ornate office were made of cloudy, scratched glass which diffused the pink light from outside into a soft glow that lengthened the shadows in every corner. Up close, Hilda could see that the Arch-Mother’s red robes were made from the finest crushed velvet. Small rubies sat at the corners of the desk. The bookshelves behind her looked old and gnarled, the leather-bound grimoires bulging at the seams.

Finally, the Arch-Mother spoke. Her voice was softer than Hilda expected. “Well, at least you did not plan to steal from us.”

Hilda took a deep breath, she ignored the icy coldness in her chest. A witch does not cower in fear.

Hilda forced herself to keep smiling. “I only wished to help the coven, to return magic to this house as swiftly as possible. Whilst I had planned to search the surrounding area for other sources of magical energy...”

The Arch-Mother waved a bony hand. “You swore an oath to lower initiate Schmidt. I have heard all about that, though I admire your perceptiveness. It seems like you are interested in knowing how magic is created. Interested enough to conspire and to act like a common sneak-thief. Tell me, and be honest, what were your motivations? Advancement? Holding power over the rest of us?”

The words left Hilda’s mouth before she could even think. “I didn’t want to be a peasant again.”

A thin smile crossed the Arch-Mother’s lips. “But you are not a peasant. You sit here in the robes of this coven, with some of the knowledge of this coven. It is more than just our magic that sets us apart from the peasants.”

Hilda hesitated and stuttered. A witch does not cower in fear. She gulped and said: “With all due respect, were it not for our magic, we would all be nothing more than bones and cinders by now. One of the founding initiates, Agnes Bauer, once said...”

Hilda hesitated and stuttered. A witch does not cower in fear. She gulped and continued: “With all due respect, were it not for our magic, we would all be nothing more than bones and cinders by now. One of the founding initiates, Agnes Bauer, once said...”

A quiet cackle. “I am well aware of what she said. But it is rare to see a novitiate who has actually read her works. Perhaps there is still hope for you yet.” Another thin smile. “Perhaps there is still hope for you yet, if you are willing to pass a test of loyalty.”

“Anything. I will swear any oath.”

“I’m sure you would, but actions speak louder than words. If you are so eager to bring magic back to this coven, then you shall help us do so. For this moment, consider yourself an upper initiate. Do well and you shall stay one.”

Hilda’s eyes widened. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She just nodded.

“The greatest secret of magic, the truth of it, is that it is the energy of life itself.” The Arch-Mother steepled her fingers.

Hilda looked confused.

The Arch-Mother continued: “Traditionally, we had to take what energies we could from graveyards, or from wherever livestock had been slaughtered. But the energies released by death can be stored in the right vessels and amplified by confluences of ley lines.”

The Arch-Mother paused for a moment, still staring at Hilda. “To that end, we built the Ruby Outpost in the desert seventy years ago. One sacrifice there is worth fifty thousand here. Your coven-sister Classanda has agreed to travel there and provide for this coven. Your coven-sister Eva gave her energies for the wand that accompanied her. And your friend Magda has, however unwillingly, provided her energies for the ritual we are about to complete.”

Hilda felt something sink in the pit of her stomach. She felt a hot tear burn down her cheek. All she could think to say was. “Why not the peasants? Why sacrifice good witches?”

The Arch-Mother could barely contain her cackling. “Oh, believe me, we used to. But we could only take a few from the village each year without rousing too much suspicion. It was far more sustainable for peasants to actually come to us voluntarily. For the survivors with enough skill and aptitude to swell our ranks as well.”

Hilda stuttered. She caught a frown crossing her face. Anger and fear fought inside of her. She felt queasy. The cackling Arch-Mother stared at her with steely grey eyes. Hilda shoved the information she had just heard to the back of her mind. Her palms were sweaty.

She remembered all of the death and the misery in the village, the constant background fear which was just part and parcel of being a peasant. A witch does not cower in fear. Even repulsed by all she had just learnt, the idea of becoming a peasant again repulsed her more. To go back to that life of scrabbling and striving. To the smell of dung and wood smoke. To calico and sackcloth.

Hilda took a deep breath. She had already cast spells. She had already twisted the souls of the dead to her own ends. There was nothing for her outside of the coven. Hilda took another deep breath. “What would you have me do?”

As soon as the words left Hilda’s mouth, images raced through her mind. Magda’s screaming face. A dripping dagger clutched in her own stained hands. Cold glassy eyes.

The Arch-Mother waved her hand dismissively. She drew a gnarled black wand from beneath the golden desk and a small scroll of parchment. She handed them both to Hilda. “Most of the ritual has already been completed. All you have to do is point the wand upwards and cast the final spell. It is similar to the wind spell you have already been taught.”

The wand trembled in Hilda’s hand. She unfurled the parchment with the other hand and read the words. Her heart skipped a beat. She mouthed a silent apology to Classanda. She tried to remember Classanda’s face, anything good or bad about her. She couldn’t even remember their last conversation. Somehow, this made what she was about to do feel worse. A witch does not cower in fear.

Hilda stood up and raised the wand above her head. She spoke the words aloud as she cast: “I call upon the points of the north and the south, the east and the west. I invoke the suns and the moons. Part these curtains, raise this veil. Let the light shine. So may it be.”

The wand trembled and sparked fiery red in Hilda’s hand. She didn’t notice the Arch-Mother closing her eyes. She didn’t notice the other upper initiates rushing over to the windows to lower the thick tapestries. There was a blinding red-orange flash. One which turned her vision as green as a summer field for what felt like long, disorientating minutes. The room became warmer. She could feel sweat prickling her skin. What have I done?

—————–

Classanda didn’t notice the gap that began to appear in the pink clouds above the tower. She was so focused on the footsteps behind the golden door beside her that she didn’t even notice the thin thread of fiery orange light that fell from the middle of the strange dappled window above. The footsteps behind the door got louder. She heard the bolt clack.

As the golden door swung open, Classanda stayed behind it with sword and wand at the ready. It was only when Classanda heard the woman gasp that she noticed the fiery light beam descending into the trapdoor below. By now, the scorching beam was as wide as an apple and as hot as a fireplace on a summer’s day.

No-one stepped out from behind the door. The golden panel twitched slightly. If she closes it on you, then you’re cooked. Like on her father’s farm, Classanda’s instincts took over before she could even think about it. She had already gripped the edge of the warm door with her wand-hand and swung around the edge of it. The slowly expanding pillar of fire singed the twirling hem of her robes. She didn’t care.

Before Classanda had even come to a halt, she thrust the sword forwards with her whole body. It caught the brown-haired witch at the base of her neck. The witch’s raised wand fell from her shaking hand and clattered onto the checkerboard tiles behind the door. She sputtered and choked. Classanda locked eyes with her for a moment. They didn’t know each other. If Classanda had to guess, the other witch was probably a lower initiate. Late twenties. Her eyes were wide with shock or fear. Classanda couldn’t tell which.

By now, Classanda could feel the heat at her back. The warmth at her elbow told her not to risk pulling the sword out. She followed her instincts.

Pressing her body against the edge of the open door and clutching her wand for dear life, Classanda summoned all of her strength and pulled the dying witch behind her as she launched herself into the doorway. The witch staggered forwards into the blazing pillar, gurgling out what should have been a scream.

As Classanda got inside, she was already spinning round and reaching for the door. A sickening sizzle filled her ears. A silhouette of black robes engulfed in fire and smoke. An obscene tavern smell. She didn’t care. She slammed the door and fell to the cold tiles. Her vision turned emerald blue for what felt like minutes. She coughed and blinked and almost dropped her wand.

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. An older woman. “Well, this is quite the turn of events.”

Classanda rubbed her eyes. She was in a brightly-lit chamber of some sort. A large purple-walled maisonette with a queen-sized bed, what looked like a small bathroom, a kitchen counter, a desk, shelves of books, plants, small porthole windows and a bank of levers and pulleys.

The translucent red-robed woman materialised in front of the desk. It took Classanda a moment to recognise her. “Arch-Mother? What are you doing here?”

“Astral projection. But, the important question is what are you doing here? No matter, the ritual is complete. Poor Gisela.”

Classanda stuttered. “It… It was self-defence.”

The Arch-Mother waved her hand. “It does not matter. All that matters is that one has been given so that the coven may survive.”

“The.. The blank letters?”

“Would you have gone if I had told you? Would anyone have?”

Classanda noticed herself reaching for the sword that was no longer at her belt. She stumbled to her feet and pointed the wand at the Arch-Mother. “You… You...”

The Arch-Mother gave Classanda a warm smile. “But you are here now and I am in need of an operator for the tower and a keeper for the ossuary dome. If you wish to leave, I can send someone else and you can take your chances in the desert. But, if you want a promotion on the spot and a chance to study in peace until you are needed again, then I would be more than happy for you to take over the outpost. All I ask is that, if you cannot bring yourself to sacrifice another, that you take her place when needed.”

Classanda’s mind swirled. Both options seemed as bad as each other. Shrivel to a skeleton or make a living burning other witches. She fell silent for what seemed like minutes. Eventually, survival instinct won out. “I’ll stay here. When is the next sacrifice?”

“Oh, not for a few months, I would imagine. We’ve been letting things run a bit low recently.” The Arch-Mother’s voice softened. “I shall have some of the other upper initiates project here tomorrow afternoon to show you around. They will not be happy about Gisela, but they understand the importance of this work. We all do.”

All Classanda could do was nod.

“Anyway, you must be hungry and tired. Conjure yourself some food and get some rest. The clouds should close again in a few hours.” And, with that, the Arch-Mother vanished.

Classanda stood there stunned, the smell of burning still lingering in her nostrils. Almost more by rote than anything, she conjured some cheese and filled one of the goblets on the counter with water. She barely tasted it. Then she walked over to the bed, fell onto it and closed her eyes. Her heart still hammered. The sheets were as soft as clouds. And, as exhaustion overtook her, all Classanda could think was: “I’m alive.”

—————–

Back at the coven-house, Hilda looked around her new room. Even with the sun-shades drawn, it looked beautiful. A world apart from her old novitiate’s cell. She still felt slightly faint from the ritual. When the Arch-Mother had opened her grey eyes, she had told Hilda that another witch had given herself in Classanda’s place. Somehow, it didn’t help with the unease that Hilda felt. The feeling of blood on her hands.

The Arch-Mother understood. She always did. “It is for the good of the coven, upper initiate. Thanks to your actions, we shall all remain safe from the baying mob with their torches and axes. You may take the next day off. Your instruction shall begin on the overmorrow.”

And, as the blonde upper initiate escorted Hilda to her new room, she had whispered. “It gets easier with time.”

Hilda had said nothing. Instead, she lay on the large queen-sized bed. It felt as soft as the garden’s grass used to. She closed her eyes. And, as exhaustion overtook her, all Hilda could think was: “At least I’m not a peasant any more.”

The End.