Page 111 of The Sea Witch
Alys drew her cutlass and slashed at the foliage. Yet her blade glanced off the vines, leaving not a single mark on the vegetation.
Susannah darted off to one side of the thicket. When she returned a moment later, her face was grim. “There’s no end to them. And no other way inside.”
“We might use magic to pry these things open,” Stasia said.
“They seem too tough to be forced to do anything.” Alys studied the thorny vines.
“We make them change directions,” Thérèse suggested. “Alter how they grow.”
Alys and her crew shared a nod before they faced the thicket. “Concentrate,” she urged them. “Flow into the vines, curve and curl with them.”
Silence fell as the four women focused on weaving their magic into the vegetation. The more Alys eased into each turn and twist of the vines, the more the plants accepted her guidance.
A rustling sounded. The vines began to twist apart.
Alys stepped into the small space now open within the thicketwall. She slowly moved forward as she and the other witches encouraged the vines to untangle. As she pushed onward, Stasia and the others stayed close behind her. Thérèse brought up the rear, holding the foliage open just enough so that they could all walk through. With each step forward, the vines behind them closed. The thicket curved overhead, nearly blocking out the remaining daylight.
Thorns surrounded them. The way was tight as they wove through the corridor. Their faces and clothes were soon covered with scrapes, and all the while, they fought the vines’ demand to grow back together again.
Hisses and curses rose up from her crew.
“Fuck these plants from hell,” Stasia snarled lowly.
Finally, daylight appeared ahead. Inhaling, Alys stepped from the vegetation into open space. She moved to the side as the rest of her crew emerged.
As soon as they were free, the foliage twisted back into place with a loud snap. A scrap of Thérèse’s coat was hanging from one of the thorns.
“I liked that coat,” she muttered, examining the tear in her clothing.
They now stood in a strip of cultivated land that stretched between the thorns and the monastery itself. Flourishing plants lined up in several raised beds. Some of them bore fruit, evidence that they were well cared for.
“Kitchen garden,” Susannah said.
“The dishes these crops season are poisoned.” Alys examined the leaves of the plants, careful to keep from touching them. “Hemlock, nightshade, foxglove. Enough to fell an army.”
“Or nourish Redthorns,” Thérèse noted.
“Hecate save us,” Stasia muttered. “We are toengagethese monsters?”
Alys strode to an arched door set in the monastery wall. She drew her cutlass before opening the door as quietly as possible.
At one end of the vaulted room, a tall hearth stood with smoke-stained bricks and a large heavy pot bubbled above a smoldering fire. Shelves stacked with jugs, cups, bowls, and cannisters lined the walls. Down the center of the room stood a heavy table. Here and there were more bowls, and cooking knives set aside from their tasks. The air carried the scent of roast meat and bitter almonds.
She and her crew quickly moved from the empty kitchen and turned into an adjoining room. Another trestle table ran the length of the chamber, with three large rough wooden chairs on either side. An empty bowl sat at each place.
“We’ll expect six of them,” Alys whispered to her crew.
Deep-set windows lined one of the walls, facing out toward the strait. Alys exhaled—theSea Witchwasn’t yet in the passage. Shadows darkened the strait as the day drew toward its close. The tide was rising, but it would ebb soon. It wouldn’t be much longer before their ship was vulnerable in the strait. They had to hurry.
A staircase led down from the refectory. Narrow and dank, it loomed close as they descended. They emerged in a corridor with open doorways on one side, and more windows set in the opposite wall.
Alys led her group from room to room, peering inside to ensure no one was within. Narrow cells were bare of furnishings, save for a single cot in each one, covered in a rough blanket, and a shelf set into the wall holding a few books. The only sunlight in each cell came from the window out in the corridor, turning each monk’s sleeping quarters into a grim hollow of shadows.
A bundle of thorny vines huddled at the foot of every bed. The floor beneath was stained with dried blood.
“This must be why they’re called Redthorns,” Susannah whispered. “They flagellate themselves with these thorny canes.”
The final cell was much larger, with multiple cots lined up, and a thick door bearing a substantial iron lock.
