Witch Song

  All the Earth is in torment.

  The three turned to the golden Creator. She hadn’t taken her eyes from Senna. Senna wished she could shuffle her feet or look away, but her roots held her fast.

  She is the last.

  For a long time, she’s prepared to fight an unknown weapon.

  A seed the one in black and red wields.

  A plant forbidden by its very nature,

  For it goes against everything we endowed the Keepers for.

  Singing, the Green Creator came forward and pressed her lips against Senna’s bark. Almost immediately, Senna felt her branches shrink. The wooden stiffness of her body softened to flesh and bone once more. And then she stood as a woman, fully healed of her injuries, a dress of white as pure and soft as the petals of a calla lily wrapped around her. In her unblemished hand, she held a piece of white fruit.

  All of them set their faces and looked at Espen. Senna hadn’t noticed that the Dark Witch lay curled up, her forehead pressed to the dirt. The four Creators circled her. The golden one sang.

  Of all our worlds and all our creations,

  Only here has a Keeper so grievously betrayed her Keepers.

  Espen looked up. Though she made no sound, her eyes were desperate. Frantically, she reached inside her seed belt.

  But before a song could leave her lips, the golden Creator stretched out her hand.

  We take from thee that which was freely given.

  No longer a Keeper, but a woman.

  Espen’s back arched as if she were in pain. The seed slipped from her grasp. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Sinuous light twisted from her body and gathered into a sphere above the golden Creator’s spread fingers. When the last tendril slipped away, Espen collapsed like a spent coal.

  Joshen gasped as though released from a vice. He staggered to Senna’s side and embraced her, nearly crushing her in his joy. Senna held tight, tears leaking from her eyelids. “Joshen,” she whispered. Nothing else existed in that moment. Just Joshen.

  When she finally let go, she saw the golden Creator, her eyes sparks of reflected light from the sphere’s brilliance, watching her with amusement.

  Senna fought the urge to look away. “What is your name?”

  The Creator smiled. “We have many names.” Her hair flashed to a vibrant orange. She held out the sphere.

  Drink and gather the power to restore thy Keepers.

  Senna’s eyes flicked from the orb to the Creator. “I … I don’t want anything that was Espen’s.”

  The golden Creator’s amber eyes shifted to the sphere.

  Espen’s evil was her own, nothing gifted her by us.

  Only the power given was taken. Nothing else.

  Senna hesitated before bending down and touching her lips to the pool of light. She sipped. It tasted as warm and pure as sunshine. When the last of it slipped inside her, she straightened, marveling as the warmth of the Creator’s power filled her.

  So rarely have we bestowed more power upon one.

  Guard its use well,

  For we shall require an accounting

  When thou hast joined us again.

  “Join you?” Senna asked in disbelief.

  The golden Creator’s hair seemed to burst into flame, though her face and body remained serene.

  All Witches join the Creators at their passing.

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Brusenna’s forehead.

  Light guide thee.

  One by one, the other Creators followed suit, pressing their lips to Senna’s forehead and singing a blessing.

  Earth obey thee.

  Plants honor thee.

  Waters heed thy call.

  And then they were gone, leaving Senna alone in the shadows once more. When her eyes finally adjusted to the lack of brilliance, she saw that dawn smeared the horizon with gray. Not darkness then. It only seemed so after the loss of the Creators’ radiance.

  What had begun at midnight had ended before daybreak.

  And it was raining again. Hand in hand, Joshen and Senna stood, too overwhelmed to speak. Espen was the first to move, lunging for Senna’s hand.

  Suddenly realizing she held her song in the form of the Lathel fruit, Senna jerked away.

  Before Espen could retaliate, Joshen put her in a choke hold and forced her to her knees. “You would’ve had me murder her! You’re still trying to murder her!” He pushed her into the mud.

  Espen trembled from head to foot. She suddenly looked much older to Senna. “Mercy,” she whispered.

  “Don’t ask for mercy. You’ve no right!” Joshen growled.

  “You hurt those who most deserved your protection.” Senna shook her head, water dripping from her face. “Not death. You deserve so much worse than death.” Unable to bear the woman’s pleading eyes, Senna looked away. She felt the weight of the fruit in her hand. Studying it, she took a hesitant bite. It tasted the same as the light the golden Creator had given her.

  She was suddenly starving for it. With each morsel she consumed, the song within her magnified until her lips tingled. She suddenly understood what the Creators had given her. She had the power of her own song plus Espen’s. The power of two Witches. Her head soaring above her body, she turned the seed in her hand. “Will you open your mouth, or should I force you?”

  Espen flinched. “I could teach you things other Witches have only dreamed of! Songs, potions, plants. I may no longer be able to sing myself, but—”

  Unwilling to listen to another syllable, Senna lifted the seed. Espen backed away, her hands raised. “Wait! You don’t understand. I’ve never worked alone. You won’t escape Tarten unless I help you.”

  Uncertain, Senna paused.

  “I’ll tell you everything in exchange for my freedom.”

  Senna’s eyebrows flew up. “Freedom? After all you’ve done?” Her whole body trembled with rage. “You’re a liar!” She shoved the seed into Espen’s mouth.

  Her body consume!

  It imbedded itself in Espen’s throat, halting her poisonous words. She coughed and gagged. “You—don’t—understand—” her voice broke. She convulsed. Her body elongated. Her skin went from pale and soft to rough bark. Her arms shot up and grew into limbs and her legs into roots. Leaves burst forth—perfect orbs that danced beautifully.

  But there was no white flower, for Espen was no longer a Witch. When it was done, all that remained was her broken seed belt, seeds scattered across the Earth.

  “But the others,” Joshen cried. “The Creators didn’t free them!”

  Senna whirled toward the trees, cursing herself for failing to ask. Now it was too late.

  “I’m the last. The last Witch,” she realized. She shook her head in despair, but then she caught sight of the black Lathel seeds that had spilled from Espen’s seed belt. The echo of a hauntingly beautiful song resonated in her memory, “so that you may have power to restore your Keepers.”

  What if? Bending down, she held one up. Rain circled it. “What are seeds if not the containers of life?” Digging a little hole, she shoved it into the Earth and sang, her voice shaking with desperate hope and fear.

  Take in light, take in air,

  Spread thy roots, thy leaves grow fair.

  A pale shoot burst from the grass as she repeated the words. However, it wasn’t a sapling that grew, but the folds of a green dress and darker cloak. As Senna repeated the song, flower buds burst open, revealing a face and hands.

  Her eyes closed, Coyel appeared. In her hand, she held a piece of white fruit. She drew breath and her eyes blinked open. Her face full of fear, her gaze darted about. She caught sight of Senna. A slow smile spread over her face. “You defeated her?” She laughed in relief. “Sacra’s daughter! Brusenna!” Without hesitation, Coyel devoured her song like a starving woman. She breathed deeply, stretching her arms skyward as the rain washed her face. “My song!” She tipped her head back and cried, “I’m free! After nearly two years, I’m free!”

  Her mot
her, the other Witches, they were still trapped. Senna whirled toward Joshen. “See if you can find my mother’s tree!”

  He dashed away.

  Searching the scattered seeds, Senna found another Lathel seed. Shoving it into the soil, she sang again. Another Witch grew. An older Witch, with a multitude of shining spectacles surrounding her face, making the woman look like she had a miniature peacock sitting on her nose. With a sagging breath, the woman came to life. Twisting down a rose-colored glass on her spectacles, she stared at Senna in disbelief. “Am I to take it that I’m no longer a seed?”

  Coyel ducked to catch the shorter woman’s gaze. “Prenny? Are you alright?”

  Tipping back a head full of wiry gray hair, Prenny glared at Coyel. “Of course I am,” she snapped. “Espen preferred to keep troublemakers’ seeds close.”

  Coyel smiled with forced patience. “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant! Awful woman cut down the trees of the other Heads as well. Burned them to the ground and then carried us around in her seed belt.” Prenny sniffed loudly and rubbed her eyes beneath her heavy glasses. “Thought I was dead.”

  “Heads?” Bewildered, Senna looked between the two Witches. “Does that mean my mother’s seed is in Espen’s seed belt?”

  Prenny twisted down another glass from her spectacles that made her eye look ten times larger than it actually was. Kneeling, she began searching the seeds. “Of all the Witches, a sprout frees us.”

  Coyel shot Prenny an exasperated look and spoke to Senna, “The Heads of the four Disciplines. I’m the Head of Sunlight, Prenny is the Head of Plants—”

  “Coyel!” Prenny interrupted. “History lessons later. Yes?”

  Coyel took a deep breath and murmured under her breath, “Being a seed had some advantages, it seems.”

  Senna couldn’t help the small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She ducked so Prenny wouldn’t see it.

  Coyel squeezed her hand. “Sacra may be here. There’s only one way to find out.”

  Prenny sang to the next Lathel seed. Senna watched as a slight Witch with perfectly curled hair and bits of lace sewn into her dress appeared. She had a different-colored gem on each finger and heavy gold chains around her neck. Coyel whispered to Senna, “That’s Drenelle. She’s the head of Earth.”

  His shirt bulging with fruit, Joshen came running back. “I grabbed as many as I could.”

  Taking one, Senna split it with her thumbs and pressed the seed into the Earth. A young Witch appeared. She was beautiful. With rich dark hair that brushed her waist and large, soft brown eyes. But she didn’t speak or move and her eyes had a faraway, glazed look. “Coyel,” Senna said. “Something’s wrong.”

  Prenny elbowed her way in. “Don’t ask for a diplomat when a healer’s needed.”

  Senna backed away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Know? Yes, I’m aware.” She lifted the Witch’s eyelid and peered into her pupil. “Arianis? Can you hear me, child?” Arianis blinked slowly. Prenny gently led the girl to the side. “Arianis was turned years ago. It may take her a while to adjust.”

  Coyel led over another Witch who wore a similar vacant expression.

  “Will they come around?” Senna asked.

  Prenny pressed her hands to her hips. “I’m a healer, not a soothsayer, girl!”

  Coyel straightened. “Prenny Bonswiky, if you cannot keep your temper …”

  Prenny waved away Coyel’s threat. “Yes, yes. Not helping.” She pointed her finger at Senna. “Make yourself useful and stop asking pestering questions.”

  Tears stung Senna’s eyes. It had been a long night and a longer few months. She felt exhausted and overwhelmed and … After all, she’d saved them! In return, she was insulted. Lifting her skirts, she made her best guess at where her mother’s tree was and started running. As she neared the edge of the clearing, Joshen appeared with another armload of fruit.

  One look at her and he dumped the fruit in heap and ran after her. “They all look the same to me,” he huffed as he came alongside her. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “I should’ve been the one to look for her.” So why hadn’t she? The answer was embarrassingly simple. She was still angry at her mother for leaving her behind … and in the dark. For so long.

  Her eyes fell from one tree to another, searching for the one she’d recognized the night before. And then she saw it. Her frenzy faded as the sun peaked through the clouds and filtered through the heavy canopy, revealing bits of pollen and dust clinging to the air like honey. She walked toward the fruit as the tree stretched it toward her. With a snap, it pulled free. She sank her thumbs into the juicy flesh. A black seed shone against the white. Her hands shaking, Senna pulled the seed free and forced it in the ground. With a dry mouth, she sang. A dress and cloak appeared. A face blossomed into being. Her mother took a sharp breath and opened her eyes. “Brusenna,” she breathed.

  Senna closed her eyes as her mother’s voice enveloped her anger like a warm blanket. Her mother’s arms encircled her. Wet tears streaked down Senna’s hot face. “Mother.”

  “You did it!” Sacra laughed.

  Senna’s tension faded. She wanted nothing more than for this moment to last forever. She wanted to study her mother, to drink in every feature. She’d forgotten about the small mole on her neck and the wisps of gray at her temples. The dark freckle in her green eyes and the dimpled scar on her right cheek.

  Her mother’s eyes lighted on Joshen. “And who’s this?”

  Joshen had been hanging back, but he came forward and gripped Sacra’s hand. “I’m Joshen, Senna’s Guardian. My father is Wittin.”

  Sacra stepped back in surprise. “A Guardian? Senna you’re not even a Witchling, how can you have a Guardian?”

  Senna’s skin felt hot. “You told Wittin to send Joshen with me.”

  Her mother held her hand over her lips. “Yes, but not for you to make him a Guardian! Only Heads can approve Guardians!”

  Senna’s mouth felt like it was sealed shut.

  Sacra didn’t seem to notice Senna’s anger. Her eyes darted from Senna and Joshen’s clasped hands to their faces. “Even if they let you keep him, you’re not supposed to be involved with your Guardian.”

  Senna wanted to scream, cry, hit something—hard. “Yet again, something else no one told me.” The fury in her voice surprised her. When had she become so bitter?

  Joshen squeezed her hand. “It’ll be alright. I’m sure of it.”

  The exchange seemed to surprise her mother. “Oh Senna, you’re not a little girl anymore.” The rain came down harder. Sacra looked away, into the forest. “I’ve missed so much.” She shook her head as tears plummeted down her cheeks, mixing with the rain sheeting down her face. Wiping them, she forced a smile. “It’s obvious he is in love with you. Are you in love with him?”

  At the sight of her mother’s tears, Senna’s anger ebbed. “Yes.”

  Sacra’s gaze fell to the fruit in Senna’s hand. Taking it, she began to eat. When she finished, she sighed in relief. She looked around once more, as if searching for something. “How did you defeat her?”

  “I called for the Creators.”

  A thin line appeared between Sacra’s brows. “And they came?”

  Was it so hard to believe the daughter she’d left behind had been capable. Of anything? “Yes. All four of them.”

  “You saw them?” her mother breathed. She shook her head as if to stop herself. “There will be time for questions. First, we must right Espen’s wrongs before it’s too late.” Without looking back, she hurried toward the Ring of Power.

  29. APPRENTICE

  Back ramrod straight, wrists resting on her knees, Senna sat inside the Ring of Power. Spaced at even intervals all around her were the Witches who had recovered from their imprisonment, while those not yet in full possession of their minds docilely waited where they’d been led, eyes glassed over.

  Arianis was among them. Senna had learned fro
m one of the other Witches that, though Arianis wasn’t much older than Senna, she was the second-most powerful Witchborn in the last century.

  Coyel stood in the circle’s center, in command of the proceedings. Though her hair fell damp down her back and her dress hung heavy with water, she was still an imposing sight. Drawing herself up to her full height, her eyes zeroed in on Senna. “I remind you all, our ceremonies are sacred. We do not discuss them with outsiders or even our own Witchlings. Failure to obey this rule will have serious consequences.”

  Shame burned Senna’s cheeks. She knew the words had been for her alone and the other Witches knew it, too. Her ignorance of the workings of the Witches felt like a brand on her forehead.

  Coyel spread her arms skyward. “Keepers, we have a great deal to repair this day. Much of our world has gone awry since last we fought to preserve it. And while it will take years, we must begin restoring the lands to their former rhythms.” Her gaze rested upon Senna. “But first, we must choose a Witch to serve as our channeler.”

  Surprised eyes turned toward Senna. She itched to squirm under the heat of those penetrating gazes.

  Sacra lifted a hand in protest. “She’s not ready, Coyel.”

  “To be a channeler, she must be a full Witch. She hasn’t even been initiated as a Witchling,” Drenelle added.

  “Does she have strength enough to serve as a channeler? If not, the act itself could kill her,” said the Head of Water, a woman Senna had heard the others call Chavis.

  Coyel turned to Prenny. “Well, does she?”

  Prenny twisted down a rose-colored glass as though dreading what it might tell her. “She’s got the strength,” she said reluctantly. “She’s a Level Seven.”

  Gasps and exclamations shot around the circle.

  “A Level Seven!”

  “We’ve only had one Level Six in the past decade!”

  “She can’t be stronger than Arianis! It’s impossible!”