Page 12 of The Coven of Ruin
“He saved me, but—“
“The Witchbanesavedyou? Why? What has he done?”
Trista blinked. Once. Twice. Comprehension came over her in an icy wave. “The Witchbane?”
“That god, The God of War and Bloodshed,” she lowered her voice when saying his title, “heisthe Cursebringer, the Witchbane. Did he touch you? Did he mark you in any way?”
Trista swallowed, the tears rapidly falling down her cheeks now. She nodded as she covered the spot where his fingerprints lay on her ribs with her own hand. “I made a life debt.” The confession came out as a pained whisper.
“Oh child, what have you done?”
Sobs burst out of her. They were filled with two moons worth of disregarded pain. Harlow gathered her up, and Trista cried unrestrained against her chest. Though she knew there would need to be more conversation, she let herself be comforted by Harlow in a way she hadn’t been by anyone since she was young. The witch rocked and soothed her with quiet shushing.
You don’t know who I am, do you? His words came back with a haunting caress in her mind.
Ares was the god who saved her, carried her out of The Arena, and asked nothing of her for doing so.
And he was also the god who mercilessly killed the two Mothers and caused the ongoing downfall of witchkind. Witches used to live much longer, and their magic was not a finite source but a deep well that connected them to each other, to the world around them. Now it was but a shadow of what it had once been. The Cursebringer’s name was struck from all records as far as she knew, his name taboo even to speak.
I have no problem killing witches.
The Witchbane most certainly didn’t. And she had made a life debt with him.
Harlow pulled back to speak again when her sobs and harsh breathing subsided. “You can’t trust gods at all,” she lectured, her eyes shifting as if they could overhear her. “Immortals live for so long that they don’t know how to bide their time. They turn to violence and meddling in the lives of others for their own amusement. If he comes to the mortal realm to collect this debt…” She trailed off, worry deepening the lines around her mouth. “Well, let’s not dwell on that right now.”
“I don’t think he will,” Trista murmured, uncertainty coating her words. The irony didn’t escape her—she had no idea what he would or wouldn’t do.
When Harlow didn’t push it, Trista told her about her generational magic being out of her control and the panic attacks she was having over even the thought of blood.
“I don’t think I can heal anymore.” Her hands shook as she took a sip from the freshly warmed tea. Despite what Eral thought, Trista was a skilled healer. But because she was covenless and raised at the Akeso, she didn’t have many other options anyway. It was the debt she owed for being a burden to them as an orphaned infant. To not pay that debt was unheard of and could even be considered a death sentence. The Akeso owned her magic until she burned up from its depletion. They owned her until death.
Harlow pursed her lips in thought. “We will figure it out. Until we do, continue to say you’re feeling ill if you have to. Have you told anyone else about the…” She gestured to her, unable or unwilling to finish the rest of the sentence.
Trista shook her head in response.
“Good, keep it that way. I’ll look into some things and have a talk with Elder Sarange. The only thing I will say is you’re safest at the Akeso. No more going out with that thief either since he doesn’t see the need to protect you as afriendshould.”
Trista didn’t feel the need to argue or defend him. Even if she wanted to, arguing with the older witch was futile.
Harlow placed both hands on her cheeks and studied her for a moment before giving her a tight-lipped smile. “I always said you were meant for more than this place; I think I’m about to be proven right.”
A knock on her bedroom door startled her out of thoughts of the Cursebringer.
“Hold on,” she called out as she pulled a robe over her night clothes. When she opened her door, she wasn’t expecting to see Eral standing there.
“Oh,” she said, the syllable hanging in the open door between them. He held two pieces of folded paper between his long fingers. Healer’s fingers. She was one by circumstance, but Eral wasbornfor it.
“Your rat boy was caught trying to get to your window with these. I swiped them up before Elder Sarange could.” Outsiders were not allowed into the Akeso unescorted and without good reason.
Trista reached out to take the letters, but Eral flicked them just out of reach. “I want to know what in the motherless void is going on with you.”
She rolled her eyes and allowed him to enter so she could shut the door behind him. “Why do you care?”
He peered around her room as he gave off a general air of disgust. She would be offended if that wasn’t how he always tended to look. “Because you’re my althea.”
Logical, but he’d never cared much about her well-being before.
“And because what you did earlier was a direct violation of my privacy and could have killed the patient or me for that matter.”
