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[Rough Draft] Chapter 99 [Part Two]: Hallowed Ground
[Trigger warning: Cannibalism]
The wind picked up, howling fiercely through the limbs of yellow birch, white oak, and cottonwood trees as Mary and her three tired charges crossed the barrier around Hawthorne wood. The three witch children started as the sharp breeze wrapped around them in a threatening but harmless breeze. Any mortal would have taken the cautionary shiver down their spine as a warning to turn back, but the children all looked to the storm witch with trusting eyes as she motioned for them to take a brief rest on a flat stump.
“This barrier is a good thing. If the Witch King surveys his borders so vigilantly, we won’t be running into any more remnants from here on in.”
The two fledglings had shared their story with Mary while traveling through the quiet woods. They were all orphans that belonged to Rose Dawn Orphanage, which fell under Duchess Kirsi’s protection. After the attack on Lady Hana and the Bastalliano Knights, the orphanage had been closed down temporarily, and the children conveyed to the safety of Bastalliano’s fortress with one of their teachers and headmistress.
Like Mary, Sarah and David had been woken from their sleep by the initial surge of the Witch King’s summons. They had asked the crows to guide them to the meeting in hopes of finding a witch powerful enough to help their headmistress, who had fallen gravely ill before shutting herself away in one of the fortress tower rooms.
Although touched by their good intentions, Mary scolded them severely for putting themselves in danger. She had then lamented her unfortunate circumstances. There wasn’t enough time to take the children back to Bastalliano personally, nor was it safe to send them back on their own.
Instead, she had settled for carrying the injured Sarah on her back while David and Jesse did their best to keep up with her rapid pace. The pair now leaned against the same tree, covered in sweat and panting as they shared water from a silver flask one of the crows had produced.
‘Likely stolen, but at least the water is clean.’
The storm witch’s ears pricked at the distant yearning lullaby that echoed softly across the forest from a distance.
“What—is that?” Sarah murmured, also picking up on the faint melody.
“Singing,” Mary replied with a rueful smile as a wave of nostalgia hit her. “We must be close. Come on then.”
“Whose singing?” Jesse panted out as he and David followed her forward along the trail.
“Witches.”
“Why are they singing?”
“It’s a polite way of showing strength,” Mary explained, keenly aware of the children’s inquisitive gazes. “Most air witches gather our power in our vocal cords in one form or another. The most basic spells require a verbal incantation to control intent and strength, and by the time they reach adulthood, most coven witches can temporarily charm or bewitch their target using only their voice.”
“Is that what a siren does?” Sarah whispered against the storm witch’s shoulder.
“What?” Mary scoffed. “A Siren is much more powerful than your average air witch. A pureblood siren can immobilize an entire army with their voice. While their destructive power is not at the same level as a storm witch, the most cunning among them have used their talents to make puppets of nobles and kings or drive their enemies into madness.”
“Is the Witch King a Siren?” David inquired hesitantly.
“His mother was,” Mary replied with a faint shrug. “I suppose it’s reasonable to believe that he inherited some of her talents along with the Kensington bloodline.”
“What other powers do you purebloods have?” Jesse pipped in eagerly.
Mary eyed the rather inquisitive earthworm for a moment before responding. “It varies greatly depending on the legacy and training passed down by each family. But the most feared among the Air Witch Coven Families were the Hawthornes.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Mary shifted her gaze between the two fledglings, who were just as curious, but a bit more cautious in their approach. “Take my family, for example. We’re called storm witches because that is the form our magic takes. The strongest among us can level entire cities.”
‘Though our Coven no longer exists. Those of us that remain have become nomads and wanderers.’
The children nodded silently as she paused, their round eyes reminding the storm witch once more of her son, who used to listen to her stories with large eyes brimming with curiosity and fear.
“The Hawthornes,” Mary resumed, clearing her throat as she pushed the distracting ache from her thoughts. “That family has led the Covens for generations due to their long history of being favored by Veles. They have quietly maintained their power while living within mortal politics for many years. Either by design or necessity, they created a practically invisible form of lethal air magic. One that can not be seen, heard, or even felt until it is too late.”
A backward glance confirmed all three were sufficiently impressed.
“The Witch King is from such a family, so bear that in mind and do try to keep a low profile,” Mary added as she focused on the path ahead and the distant beat of drums that built beneath the chanting, keening vocals. “The Coven laws and protection do not apply to witches like us. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the easier it will be to leave once the obligations of the summons are complete. As soon as we can leave, I’ll be taking all three of you back to Bastalliano, where you’ll be safe.” She gritted her teeth silently at the thought of Lafeara’s less reputable coven being present and hoped, for the children’s sake, that they had not been invited.
***
Large white geese feathers tied to protective wind charms sway in the melodic breeze beneath the scarlet limbs of ancient hawthorn trees, which formed a spacious open grove beneath the moonlit sky. Mary kept the children close to her side as they joined the other stragglers wandering into the crowded clearing. The hypnotic singing of men and women echoed through the swaying branches of the century’s old trees.
Three distinct groups of witches gathered around three large banners that Mary identified easily enough from her mother’s stories. The Nocturnem Coven, controlled by the Hawthorne family, took center stage with the most prominent and eye-catching banner that held the ghostly image of a pale crow with crimson red eyes perched upon a human skull decorated with a broken crown.
‘Nothing like the peaceful white birds they use on their more public family sigil.’
To the left, the Twilight Coven’s banner, a fearsome white horned owl perched on a dripping red moon with a dead black fox clutched in its talons. According to rumors passed amongst covenless witches taking refuge in Bastalliano, this Coven had transitioned from the previous head of the Kensington Family to his sister, the Countess of Hawthorne, before rightfully returning to his sole heir and daughter. Although curious as to the rather unorthodox transition of power, Mary knew better than to dig deeper. She had as little interest in the Covens’s power dynamic as she did in the politics of nobility.
With that thought in mind, Mary shifted her attention to the sigil on the right she had not seen nor heard of before, though the feral group of witches who gathered beneath it were easily identifiable. The Coven of Crows, more aptly known as the Cannibal Crows, was represented by the visage of a beautiful, pale, young woman with crimson hair, half disrobed in the moonlight, surrounded by a flock of crows as she stood upon a pile of bones.
‘An apt representation,’ Mary noted as she took in the number of remarkably youthful witches with silverly white hair amongst their ranks, several of whom were coyly flirting with the obviously repulsed members of the Nocturnem Coven beside them. The frantic wails of a child pulled her horrified gaze towards the center of the cannibal’s gathering, where several large bird cages appeared to be holding sleeping infants and small children.
“M-mary,” David’s voice shook as he and Sarah shared a horrified look. “What are—are those witches—”
“Cannibals,” Jesse blurted out, looking equal parts repulsed and enraged.
“Don’t look,” Mary hissed as she firmly grabbed the earthworm’s hand. “Don’t engage. Just keep moving.”
“Well, well, what have we here!” A sickeningly sweet voice sent both boys cowering behind the storm witch. Mary whirled around to face the rather boney-looking, suspiciously young woman with silver hair and unpleasantly black teeth. “Oh, dearie me, what happened to you poor children? Are you injured? Would you like a sweet?”
“They are under my care,” Mary growled threateningly as she swatted the woman’s long black nails away from David.
“They are not yours, surely,” the silver-haired witch protested, her smile faltering only slightly as she circled Mary and the children like a hungry wolf taunting its cornered prey. “That boy—he’s certainly not yours. He smells wrong.”
“What business is it of yours, hag,” Jesse spat out venomously. Mary choked on a strangled laugh and the putrid scent that permeated the air around them.
The cannibal witch jerked to a sudden halt, her silver hair spiraling out around her. “Rather mouthy for a pair of discarded fledglings.” Her dark eyes took on a sinister expression as they snapped in Jesse’s direction, then she drew back her lips in a snarl to reveal rows of sharpened teeth which drew a surprised shriek from Sarah.
Judging from the silence that followed, Jesse appeared to have lost his boisterous courage. Mary loosened Sarah’s death-like grip on her neck, then pulled the moonstone wand from her belt and held it before her, brightening the stone just enough to make the cannibal flinch and look away. “As I said, they are under my protection.”
The silver-haired witch smirked and tapped the end of Mary’s wand with a long black nail. “Relax, storm witch. No one would dare shed witch blood on such hallowed ground.” She flicked the wand aside and danced back coyly as two more cannibal witches wandered closer to retrieve her or offer their assistance. “But perhaps I’ll see you after the meeting, earthworm,” the silver-haired witch called out with a wink aimed in Jesse’s direction. “On the other side of the barrier.”
“Mercy’s tit!” Mary lowered her wand, then cautiously glanced about to confirm that they had, in fact, gained an unnecessary amount of attention. “Shit!” She stowed the wand and turned promptly to seize Jesse by the ear. “What did I say about keeping a low profile!”
“Ow!” the boy yelped in surprise as storm witch stormed towards the nearest hawthorn tree at the edge of the gathering, leaving David to follow behind them. “What—ow—did I do?”
“Never trust a crow. Never get involved with the Covens. And never take responsibility for children that are not yours!” Mary hissed under her breath as she lifted the children onto a lower branch of the twenty-foot giant, securing them in place with her scarf. “You had better pray that I can convince my squad to assist me in escorting all three of you safely back to Bastiallano before the Canniable Queen makes a feast out of one of you!”
Jesse looked sufficiently chastised as Sarah shot him a pointed look while David rushed to apologize.
***
“The Coven of Crows is acting out again,” Eustice observed from his seat beside the Marchioness. The pair followed the gathering below from the crown of giant hemlock. His dark grey eyes watched the hooded witch, and her three children move to the far perimeter of the grove. “I thought the Witch Kings summons didn’t apply to children.”
“It doesn’t,” Serilda replied dully as she stirred the barely touched win in her glass. “The Coven doesn’t involve children in matters like these.”
Eustice raised a brow as he watched the hooded witch secure her children to a tree, then turned his gaze back to the gathering of cannibal witches. “To think they would blatantly flaunt their despicable habits here in front of the Covens.”
“Leave it,” Serilda murmured, following his gaze. “The treaty requires that we not involve ourselves in the internal management of other covens. You would be better served focusing on matters close to home.”
“Not this again,” Eustice growled as he twisted on the branch to face her. “I told you I have no interest in inheriting my father’s title. My brother can have it, as is his right.”
“Your brother is a fool without a drop of political cunning in his veins. His wife is a simpleton who believes a family name, position, and a male child grant her all the authority she requires.”
“They are fulfilling the duties expected of them by our family and the Coven. And they are loyal to our King and the Nocturnem Coven. What more do you require?”
Serilda scoffed as she tossed the remains of her wine onto the ground below. “Has it even occurred to you that your Father hasn’t pushed you forward as a potential heir because he’s waiting for you to take the initiative?”
“No,” Eustice replied bluntly. “My Father disapproves of family infighting. Besides—” he smirked as he leaned across her to place their foreheads together, “—as your concubine, what use would I have for the old man’s title.”
It might have been a trick of the shadows, but Eustice thought he saw a gleam of violet flash across the pureblood’s moss-agate green eyes. The Marchioness smiled back at him coyly as she slid her fingers through the buttoned opening of his shirt to caress the healing scratch marks she had left during more intimate activities.
“Unfortunately.” Eustice shivered as Serilda’s husky voice brushed through the blonde hair by his ear. “I prefer a man with a bit more ambition.” Her lips teased down his neck while her fingers prickled against his healing flesh before firmly dismounting him with a single push.
Eustice laughed as he caught himself on the branch below and regained his perch beneath her. “I’m not your cousin, Serilda.” Her beautiful eyes flashed in warning as she leaned provocatively on the branch above him with a cold smile. Eustice did his best to smother the resentment, lust, and pain battling inside his chest as he faced the dangerous enchantress above him. “If Percy is the man you want, then perhaps you should focus all your efforts on being honest with him. I have—no desire to play second fiddle—to any man. Even a king.”
Serilda snorted and raised a single delicate brow mockingly. “Except your brother?”
“Ernest is not my competition,” Eustice growled out as he clenched his fists.
The Marchioness sighed and rolled onto her back to stare at the moon above them.
“Seri!”
“You’re boring me, Eustice.” He flinched at the harshness of her tone and the callous wave of her hand as she dismissed him. “Go cool your head with some wine. I’ll summon you if my mood improves.”
***
Serilda closed her eyes as she flicked the smooth garnet beads of her necklace. She heard Eustice leave from the branch below and sighed as his presence left the tree altogether. Left alone with her tumultuous thoughts, the Marchioness sucked in her lip as she pressed a hand against the persistent nausea in her stomach.
Tonight, Percy would formally nominate Kirsi as his political partner and future Queen of the Covens. Because this was a political union rather than one of merged bloodlines through marriage, the matter required the agreement of each coven leader. However, with Percy in control of two out of three of the covens, the gathering was more of a formality and a means of gathering additional forces for tomorrow’s coming battle.
‘Percy has all the justification he needs now that Kirsi has chosen to side with us against the Pope. Even if Nicholas manages to find his spine and stand with us, he’ll soon be ousted by the very people who supported him once he turns against the Church—if he doesn’t die in the ensuing chaos.’
Serilda would have been fine with a political alliance. After all, it wasn’t like she hated Kirsi. If anything, she was grateful for the Duchess’s continued coldness towards Percy that seemed to have finally convinced the Earl to give up his romantic pursuit at least. That said, Serilda was uncomfortable with the idea of bowing her head and pledging loyalty to Kirsi, a sentiment shared by many of the coven witches and purebloods who saw the Duchess’s continued independence as a potential threat.
‘Once we rescue Lady Hana and finish off the Pope, what’s to stop Kirsi from abandoning us—or allying herself with Nicholas to keep Percy from the throne?’
The Marchioness’s moss-agate eyes flashed with a hint of purple as she opened her eyes, detecting movement and an unpleasant smell below her. “Speak.”
“My Lady,” one of the shadows of the Twilight Coven called up respectfully. “A representative of the Coven of Crows wishes to speak with you.”
“Tsk.” Serilda pulled her gaze away from the scenic view and sat up cautiously. “A representative?” The pureblood pressed her fingers against her throbbing temple, enjoying their cool sensation, as she took in the shriveled woman’s face, barely visible behind her tattered shawl and scarf.
“Lady Kensington,” a withered voice greeted her with a respectful bow. “If you would humor this relic of an elder with a brief conversation?”
“What topic might an elder of Crows have for myself or the Twilight Coven?”
“One that concerns the continued peace between the three Covens, Lady Kensington.”
Serilda scowled and turned her attention to the shadow. “Has our illustrious Witch King left his Manor yet?”
“Not yet, my Lady.”
‘What in Veles breath is keeping him? Is he still waiting for Kirsi?’
“Very well.” The Marchioness glided down from her perch to land before the stooped elder. “Speak.”
“Might we—move to a more private venue first?” The old woman pressed with a pointed glance at the crows gathered in the trees around them.
Serilda scoffed but spun on her heel promptly and led the way outside the grove. She did not dismiss her shadows. Their loyalty was to her, and she had no reason to trust a cannibal. Once a safe distance from the grove of singing witches, the Marchioness erected a magical barrier to keep out prying ears and settled down on a boulder to wait for the elder to reach her.
“Thank you for—humoring my request, most illustrious Lady,” the old woman panted as she hobbled closer. “My name—is Verena. I am one of the elders of the Coven of Crows.”
“I see.” Serilda eyed the cannibal as she settled down on a mossy stump with a faint grunt. ‘She’s really putting on a show of being a weak and feeble old woman.’ “Well, Verena, as a representative of your Coven, wouldn’t you be better served addressing your concern with the Witch King directly?”
“We fear our efforts would be in vain,” Verena explained as she adjusted her weather garments with surprising care. “Given the Witch King’s blind devotion for Kirsi.”
Serilda’s brow twitched at the implication of the cannibal’s words. “Well then, I suppose you better share your concerns with me.”
Something resembling a smile appeared beneath the tattered scarf wrapped around the woman’s lips. “I thank you for your generosity, Lady Kensington. In short—my Coven intends to vote against the Witch King’s motion to name Kirsi as our Queen.”
The Marchioness couldn’t stop the smile that played across her lips even as she raised her brows in surprise. “Why?”
The cannibal scoffed and shook her head. “Because there exists no realm of possibility where my sisters and I may maintain our very means of existence beneath Krisi’s reign.” Verena’s hands trembled as she hid a fanged grimace behind her scarf. “Ours is a history stained by persecution. Rejected by our own, villainized by mortals for years, and hunted, not just by the church, but by the Scarlet Witch herself.”
“Kirsi?”
Verena’s grey eyes darkened and narrowed as if in memory. “The legend of the Scarlet Witch began with the fall of the last Isbrand King. Many noble families of ice witches were forced into hiding, some abandoning Lafeara altogether. One such desperate family stumbled their way into our hiding place quite by accident.”
Serilda’s stomach churned unpleasantly at the strange gleam of hunger that brightened the withered woman’s face.
“It’s not often that such a rare delicacy presents itself at our door. The arrival of the Second Saint had forced our coven into hiding and reduced us to cannibalizing each other. So we opened our doors eagerly to these displaced noble witches and offered them shelter. In return for our food and drink, they offered up only insults and disrespect. They forced their way into our treasury and took the rare artifacts we used to hide our appearance. They beat us and drove us from home when we protested. We endured as best we could, but our anger quickly gave way to hunger and took our payment in the form of the nobleman’s bastard children.”
The marchioness’s fingers dug into her skin, her expression cold, as a feverish chill filled her body.
“Never have I tasted such purity,” Verena whimpered as her eyes rolled back. “By morning, myself and my sisters had regained our vitality and power. Of course, the children’s mother, the nobleman’s mistress, was beside herself with panic when she found the children missing from their beds, but the pureblood and his guards were still heavily inebriated from the drugs and aconitum we had laced into the meat and drink left behind. The witless coward fled with his wife and their children at first light, leaving his poor grieving mistress behind.” A sinister smile touched the cannibal’s eyes as she chuckled beneath her scarf. “Of course, we took pity on the poor creature’s suffering and reunited her with her children.”
“And how—” Serilda forced out through clenched teeth, “—does this relate to Kirsi?”
“It is something one often learns far too late,” Verna lamented softly. “Once you get a taste for something that—unique—it’s hard to let it go.” The elder shook her head and sighed. “We considered the possibility of reprisal should the covens learn of our misconduct. With our powers restored and stronger than ever, we gave chase, picking the pack of ice witches apart one by one.” A low feral growl shivered behind the cannibal’s scarf, but she quickly composed herself and continued. “Once their numbers had dwindled, we snared one of the pureblood children in our trap. You see, the bastard children had been tainted by their mother’s blood, and we were very, very curious as to how the pureblood children would taste.”
An unpleasant taste rose at the back of Serilda’s throat as the scent of blood and earth filled her senses.
“Of course, we didn’t expect the parents to react so differently over the fate of their little girl. They left their two remaining children with what remained of their guard and turned back to face us head-on.” Verna chuckled as her eyes darkened ominously. “It’s a strange thing to witness such powers witches driven to such desperate efforts to protect their young. But they were two, and we were twenty, with the blood of their youngest fresh upon our lips. We would have finished them both—their broken hearts were ripe for the taking—but the Second Saint had caught wind of our little hunt and decided to intervene.” The cannibal’s tone soured as she shook her head. “Little prick didn’t appreciate the favor we were doing him—after dispatching the nearly dead ice witches and burning their remains with holy fire, he turned on us.”
Despite her earlier revulsion, the Marchioness felt a sudden irritation as the cannibal witch fell into a sullen silence. “Well? What happened? How did you escape?”
“Have you ever wondered what it takes to kill a Saint?”
A shiver of anticipation surpassed the waves of nauseous plaguing Serilda as she leaned towards the elder. “How?”
“I’m joking,” Verena retorted with a snort. “There is none. They’re near immortal and impossible to kill.” The cannibal witch barked out a laugh at the Marchioness’s annoyed scowl. “Unless, of course, their god abandons them first.”
Serilda blinked and tilted her head inquisitively. “The Saint was abandoned? By their god?”
“I suppose by then, their purpose had been served,” Verena replied with a stiff shrug. “Rumor had it Kirsi had been drowned at sea in some cursed relic forged of dragon bones. It would explain why that bastard was out hunting stray witch nobles so far from the Captial. He certainly took his time dicing us up one by one with that dragon sword when suddenly—bang—a lightning bolt from the sky slams into his body.” The elder smiled at the Marchioness’s stunned expression. “Yes, we were surprised too. Never felt anything that powerful before or since. Took me a long while to recover my vision. But there the Saint knelt, still breathing, barely, with a hole through his chest, powers all gone. Those of us who survived the massacre made sure he suffered till the very end.” Verena’s teeth gleamed as they caught against the frayed fabric of the scarf. “And Mercy—Mercy ate that bastard’s heart in front of his very eyes as he died.”
The Marchioness’s eyes widened in silent disbelief as the cannibal continued her sordid tale.
“We were too weak to continue hunting the pureblood’s children at this point, so we returned home. When no one came knocking, we thought we were in the clear and began rebuilding our coven. Then, nearly three decades later, those pureblood children returned and brought Kirsi with them.”
Serilda was surprised by the fear lurking in Verena’s eyes as the elder clenched her bony fingers tightly.
“So many of my sisters died that day. Kirsi put a sword through everyone who had tasted an ice witch’s flesh. The purebloods with her eliminated the rest of our order and burnt our coven to the ground.” A tear fell down the elder’s cheek and vanished beneath her scarf. “The only two to survive were myself and Mercy, and then only because we happened to be away hunting for half-witches.” Verna dabbed at her cheek and grimaced. “To add insult to injury, Krisi gathered all the half-witches in Lafeara and built herself an army to hunt down any other covens who partook in any form of cannibalism. Then she and the Ice Covens joined hands with the Nocturnem Coven and our Witch King’s ancestor—and do you know how her little rebellion ended then? With Kirsi and nearly a thousand witches dead at the hands of the Third Saint.”
Serilda stared at the cackling cannibal witch as she weighed the truth of Verena’s story with the history she had read from the secret libraries of Anthraticus. “And yet you and your coven, in all your wisdom, decided to bring children to feed off of at an event Kirsi herself will be attending?”
‘Are they trying to provoke her? To what end?’
Verena was silent for a moment before letting out a loud snort. “It’s not like we stole them. They’re not even witches. Just the discarded filth left by mortals at the church’s doorsteps.” She waved a hand dismissively as if no further justification were needed. “Most of the ones we’ve taken in are half-witches who could become our mortal enemies if they ended up in the wrong hands. So, you might say we’re doing the Covens a favor.”
“By raising and eating children like cattle?”
“Oh, dearie, dearie,” the old woman crooned as she leaned forward to pat Serilda’s hand. “It’s not like we can eat anything else. That is the curse of our sisterhood. Once you’ve tasted human flesh tainted with the blood of a witch—nothing else will satisfy your hunger—nothing will ever come close to tasting edible again.” Her dark eyes searched the Marchioness’s pale face with a knowing look as she caressed the pureblood’s skin with unsettling tenderness. “Which is why we should stick together. Don’t you agree?”