Page 68 of The Coven of Ruin
“That he will ascend. Rise. Or, in other words,” Grae mused, “take the throne.”
“Does this mean he is one of them?”
“I think that is exactly what it means,” Grae assented. “And the only way a Prince rises is if his predecessor is dead.”
Dread ran a cold finger down her spine. “The Witch King is in danger, and this missive is older than a lunar cycle or more! We must warn him. We have to—“
“Sorry, Trist.” Grae pressed his lips together, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not how this works.”
The parchment slipped from her hand, drifting to land on her lap.
“But I figured it out.” Her voice rose into a gasping crescendo. “What was the point of figuring it out if we weren’t going to use the information for good? To save those who deserve to be saved?”
If she was helping gods of war against a shared foe, why couldn’t they use the information she had gathered to prevent horrible things from happening?
Grae almost appeared sympathetic. “We will see what we can do, but we don’t even know what ‘the between’ means as far as places go. The only place I know of as the between is what we call the space around us when we are gating. In that case, that could be anywhere.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she gritted her teeth as they spilled over. “I swear on the Mother, if innocent witches die because you are more concerned about Olympus than overall doing the right thing, I’ll—“
“You’ll what, witch?” His voice came from the doorway, effectively cutting her off. It was a challenge. Maybe even a threat.
Standing up, she turned to face The God of War. His features were half hidden, the light emitted from the fire and sconces not quite revealing his expression.
“We must maneuver carefully,” Grae said at her back. “If we can stop this from happening, we will. But we aren’t supposed to know about any of it, especially that Prince Roan is involved. He’s hidden every hint he knows about what’s going on, and we have trailed him all hours of the day and night before, only for him to be right where he was supposed to be.”
Looking over her shoulder, she met Grae’s gaze. “I won’t do it. If anything happens to the Witch King or my friends, I won’t.”
By the narrowing of his gaze, she knew he understood what she was referring to. She wouldn’t help him save Ares. He offered her a barely perceptible nod. When dealing with the gods of war, she imagined the only way to act was like a god of war herself.
She stepped around their seating area on a long inhale and walked back toward the chamber’s entrance. Even without looking at him, she knew that Ares tracked her until she shut the door behind her.
The Mothers’ temple, where the ceremony was held, was beneath the castle. They followed the Somner down through plain hallways and old, creaky doors, their hinges protesting all the while. They traveled mostly in silence besides an occasional mumbling of ‘how much further’ or ‘watch where you’re stepping’. She felt like a witchling again, holding hands with others as they traveled to and from rooms within the Akeso.
They were all dressed the same in silver shimmering gowns that looked as if stars and moonlight had been spellbound into the fabric. The soft, thin material felt like it would fall apart in her hands if she tampered with it too much. She imagined itwasjust that delicate, seeing as how it was meant to spread through the waters in the Mother’s temple—symbolic of both birth and rebirth.
Zyana looked uncomfortable as ever in front of her, constantly pulling at the clinging material. Trista refrained from commenting on her appearance aloud, but her friend looked ethereal. Her umber skin radiated almost as much as the dress did. The slinky fabric allowed for the expression of curves that were otherwise lost to the thick and loose fabric she favored.
The Somner’s voice traveled from the front of the line. “Watch your step, and line up just as we practiced. Do this quickly and quietly. Once all are in, the ceremony will start. Do not dishonor yourselves or your covens,” she snapped.
Their steps slowed considerably as each witch stepped through the stone-carved archway. The masonry above the entry was inlaid with ancient Hexick runes that had faded over the centuries. Steps away, Trista could make out a pale green light dancing off the walls. Once inside, she realized that it was the same light that illuminated the castle’s exterior. Here it seemed less harsh.
Enthralling and rhythmic, she had to tear her eyes away from it to focus. She only had time to make out the rows of mages, and those not participating in the first part of the ceremony on one side of the deep and wide cavern, before an usher stepped in front of her to lead her to her spot. She captured a glimpse of the pool and the shrouded statues of the Mothers as they passed by.
Per the Somner, they were not to begawking. They were to face straight ahead until it was time to step into the pool. Luckily, Trista was so short and several rows from the front that she was mostly hidden from view. Taking the opportunity, she looked around only to find that many of the other witches were doing the same.
Demurielle, as part of the six chosen by Prince Roan, had left long before them and stood beyond the pool with the other five chosen witches. She held a lit candle, and a shimmering translucent veil sat over her hair and covered her face, but Trista could just make out the sun witch’s eyes scanning their rows. Next, Trista strained to see out into the crowd of mages, wondering if any of the gods of war were in attendance. She couldn’t see any of them, but she did find Xerxes, his hair a beacon in the dim cavern.
A witch behind her hissed at her to stop moving. Rolling her eyes, she sighed inaudibly. Her nerves were shot for reasons other than making sure she didn’t faint or walk offbeat as she crossed the pool. Tonight was Illean’s deadline for her. If anything went wrong, her friends could be in danger. She had decided that if somethingdidgo awry, she would tell them everything, including the identity of the iron generals. Her gaze slid back to Demurielle. On top of everything else, by night’s end, her friend could very well be betrothed to the prince.
The Witch King, flanked by the princess and the prince, entered at that exact moment.
The cavern quieted further at their arrival. When the Witch King spoke, his tone held a soft reverence to it that echoed through the chamber in a caress. “Tonight is not about which coven you are from or what title your name holds. Tonight is about our beginning. Five-hundred and fifty-five years ago, the Mothers chose to create witchkind using only their love, immortality, and hallowed wombs. The two Mothers achieved something that even the gods envied. We have lost sight of that. Let us be reminded of that tonight because, though we were not there at the beginning, the very magic in our veins was. Though we are many covens, our magic is one.” The words resonated within the temple.
“This is also about our future. The last time this ceremony was conducted was one-hundred and fifty-seven years ago. No one in this room, including myself, was there for it. This is an exceptional moment in our history. The witches of our Circes will do us the honor of leading the ceremony. As two Mothers gave us life, it should be only witches who cross into the holy waters before them.
“We have come together, united. We will further unite our covens when the prince and the princess choose who they will build this future with.”
She could only see some of what was occurring before the line of witches moved again. The tranquil sound of witches traversing carefully through the water reminded her of gentle tides. Between the dancing green light and their sparkling gowns, everything was a watercolor come to life. Just as she thought the rhythm might lull her elsewhere, the procession of her row began, and she followed.
