Page 46 of The Coven of Ruin
“And you know you’re welcome at Sun, but I get the sense you prefer winter.”
“You’re right,” Trista admitted, “I don’t like the heat very much. Give me rain and cold weather any time. Though, I only love the rain if I can be tucked away inside. Otherwise, my hair.” She put her hands around her hair to illustrate it frizzing up.
“Which coven suits you best?” Demurielle mused. “Do you feel a connection to any one coven now that you’ve witnessed them all here? And when were you born?”
“I was born in winter,” Trista replied. The only information she had was that she was born and named in the middle of a winter night. Only to be given to the Akeso a couple weeks later. “I haven’t felt suited to any of the covens, honestly.” It had been something she contemplated when she observed them. But the thoughts usually left her feeling worse.
“Sounds like Moon and Bone it is for you,” Zyana remarked while nodding her head seriously. “Too bad that coven is so far from ours. And I distrust anyone who wants to be in a coven that spends half of the year lit only by the moon.” She leaned back against the mattress, placing her hands behind her head. “I vote you both come to Mountain and Moss. It’s the only solution that makes sense.”
Demurielle scoffed before grabbing a pillow and hitting Zyana with it. “I will not be going toThe Coven of Mountain and Moss.I don’t want calluses,” she screeched.
Zyana snatched the pillow from the sun witch and placed it under her head. Her self-satisfied smirk still played at her lips as she closed her eyes.
“Obviously,” Demurielle drew the word out as she glared at the mountain witch, “if we had to pick just one coven for us to go to, it would be mine. Besides, Trista, winter born means you are summer made.”
“And what would I do there?” Zyana cracked an eye open to peer at them.
“Well,” the sun witch contemplated as she quickly tugged the pillow from beneath Zyana’s head, “you could be our royal guard.”
“And Trista? What will you do there because you most certainly wouldn’t be a healer, right?”
She contemplated the question. “No, not a healer. I guess if Ihaveto live in The Sun Coven, I could make tinctures and salvesto sell, though.”
“And we will just make sure that we make a home somewhere that is well-shaded so Trista is happier. See? Sun is perfect,” Demurielle said with finality.
“Or we spend half the year in the mountains. It gets cold there and rains in the winter and spring.”
“It’s a strange feeling, not truly belonging somewhere. I think as long as I was with you two, I’d love any coven. It would be home.”
Both witches looked at her in a way that made her want to shovel the words back into her mouth.
But then Demurielle squeezed her shoulder once. “You belong with us now, whether you like it or not. So Sun it is!”
Zyana protested further and the two bickered for several more minutes. Trista curled up where she was. Demurielle’s hands found their way back into her hair at some point. Smiling through a yawn, she muttered an apology. She was drained from the night before and could barely keep her eyes open anymore.
“A nap then?” Demurielle suggested as she moved to settle beside her.
Sleeping with them in a carriage for several weeks did not prepare Trista for the chaos. Zyana moved around so violently that she hit Trista somehow on the other side of the bed. Demurielle was just as touchy in her sleep, entwining her arm in Trista’s and draping a leg over Zyana. And though the witch was petite, once she had a limb in her grasp, she refused to give it up.
Before slumber fully took her, Ares’ question came back into her mind.What is it that you want?In the confines of the makeshift fortress and the comfort of her friends’ presence, she could only think thatthiswas what she wanted.
Chapter XXI
Tristaspentexactlyfivedays attempting to translate the missives. Any free time in the evenings she had was spent in Ares’ room in the western tower. The God of War, however, had been absent each night, and instead, she was accompanied by Brune. He spent the time sharpening an endless amount of weaponry or carving small figurines from chunks of wood. He never spoke to her, even when she greeted him and bid him goodnight. Yet, she found herself enjoying his presence. The god emanated a calming energy, so it was easy to pretend they were two old friends who didn’t need to speak to understand each other.
When she knocked on the door for the sixth night in a row, ‘good evening, Brune’ was already halfway out of her mouth when she met Ares’ golden gaze. He arched a brow at her before letting her pass. “Disappointed?”
“Yes, actually.”
The missives and books she was using as references were already on the table. The god said nothing else to her as he sat at the desk, leaving her in his direct line of sight. Sitting on the floor, she crossed her legs and arranged everything as she needed it. Looking up at him from beneath straying waves of her hair, she observed the hard set of his features as he studied whatever lay on the desk. She blew a pesky curl out of her face and picked up where she’d left off, resigned to sharing his intense presence.
Even with letters from each missive mashed together, translating the actual language wasn’t that difficult. The problem Trista faced was that it didn’t make sense in any of the words’ various meanings. Before she knew it, an hour or more had passed. She yawned, kneaded her lower back, and stretched out her legs.
Any witch who knew Hexick or had access to the library could translate the missive outright if it were so straightforward. Trista continued arranging the meanings in countless more possibilities but still came up with gibberish. “There has to be a reason for using the full Hexick runes,” she muttered to herself. Frustration often had her unraveling her thought process through speaking out loud. Brune hadn’t cared at all.
She checked to see if Ares was scowling at her. When she found him still engrossed in his own work, she continued quietly, “Or maybe the combined runes are mismatched altogether.”
Thirty minutes later, she let out a groan of frustration, tossing the quill and piece of parchment onto the table in front of her. “Curse it,” she grumbled.
