Page 17 of The Coven of Ruin
Guards came by a moment later to reassure them that the situation was under control but not to stray too far.
This was how it had been over the last week and a half. A couple stops a day for people to exit their carriages, stretch their legs and attend to any other needs they had. They had designated stops at large inns here and there, but for the most part, they slept in their carriages. Though the carriage benches were comfortable with deep cushioning and wide enough for an average-sized mage, it was rather miserable day in and day out.
One thing was for certain, Trista was excited to get to Spellspire, if for no other reason than to sleep in an actual bed each night.
On a morning several days later, their carriage crested a hill, and even Demurielle was struck speechless. The castle lorded over the sprawling city before it. It was colossal, the spirals of the castle disappearing into the clouds. Black and dark chrome in color, it was naturally lit in part by rich green illumination that rose from caverns and pits far beneath. Trista wondered what exactly produced the light, but she had no time to contemplate the answer with everything else vying for her attention.
The city was a maze of streets, more than the eye could see, webbing out and out. The closest place she had ever been to like it was The Mark. Whereas its streets were cramped, squished in the land that was not coven owned, and saturated with an enigmatic characteristic, as if it could be gone the next day, the capital’s streets reached and expanded like a breathing thing.
The streets that the carriages went down had been blockaded off and tailored to the arrival of witches from across the country. Armed guards were strategically stationed at points on the streets. But, even so, there were so many witches, and everything was different—from the fashion to the sounds and smells. There were unique hues bursting with life and a mystical charge that undulated through the city that had her own magic humming in response.
None of them could help but to point out things they saw as their carriage cut a quick path through the city. In an intersection a conductor directed an entire symphony made up of instruments that played themselves. They passed shops filled to the brim with jewels that caught the light and splayed it out in dancing, fractured colors. A turbulent group of mages undergoing fierce negotiations with dice that decided the outcome was forced to move out of the way of their carriage, guards pushing them to the sides.
Trista wondered what enchantments the rest of the city held within it. Adding exploring and unearthing Spellspire’s rhythm and secrets to her short list of activities, she smiled.
Chapter VIII
Litoneithersideby hovering lanterns, a smooth cobblestone path led up to the castle. Guards milled about in the early evening sun as they passed, greeting their convoy. Once the carriages were staged, their doors were opened by finely dressed ushers, who bowed and welcomed them as they exited.
Demurielle squealed when they let go of her hand with instructions to head toward the entryway. Stableboys were already working on removing the straps connecting the horses to the carriage, and attendants were marking their luggage to be taken to their rooms.
“This way, ladies.” Another usher swept his arm out wide, gesturing toward the black stone steps of the castle. Trista followed the face of the dark edifice all the way up until she couldn’t anymore. It was a glorious sight, and she didn’t realize she had stopped moving until Demurielle grabbed her elbow.
“The royal family waits,” she whispered, an understanding glint in her eyes. Subtly, so as not to be seen doing it, Demurielle pointed to the top of the stairs.
There the Witch King stood already greeting the coven leader, Majus Igen, of The Mountain Coven. The king had a charm about him and a kind smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The white sprinkled into his hair and beard indicated his age.
Beside him, Prince Roan greeted the Majus with a tense nod of his head. At first glance, he was an attractive mage—strong jawline, dark hair, and a rigid stance. He did not, however, smile as easily as his father. The prince held his arms behind his back in what she suspected was his idea of being relaxed while also ensuring that no one mistook him for wanting to embrace.
“I can only imagine you are weary from your travels,” the Witch King’s voice magically projected to the group. “I invite you to follow your ushers inside, and they’ll escort you directly to your rooms. Please, make yourselves at home, take a hot bath, and dinner will be sent up. I’d like you all to join us at breakfast tomorrow morning. Your ushers will answer any concerns or questions you have. Welcome”—he swept his arms out wide—“to Spellspire.”
As the prince and the Witch King were encircled by their guards and led back into the castle, Demurielle whispered in her ear, “Strange, I wonder where the princess is.”
The first fortnight in the castle was a whirlwind of activity, and she went to bed each night thoroughly exhausted. Demurielle had all but demanded that she and Zyana be roomed next to her, causing a minor upheaval as trunks were moved around to fit her desire. She smiled sheepishly at them once it was complete, with her hands still fisted on her hips.
“Sometimes you just have to make sure you get what you want. By any means necessary.”
Zyana, looking impressed but skeptical, had asked, “But did you really need to say all that stuff about the power of three?”
As far as those in Spellspire went, even if they knew Trista was a covenless healer, they didn’t treat her any differently than Demurielle and Zyana. To them, she was purely there to experience the Circes season. There was one quick meeting with a royal advisor, Elder Sarange, and Eral, in which they were presented as the official party of the Northern Akeso. He had assured them that anything they needed would be provided for and if they wanted to visit the castle’s infirmary and renowned healers, they could, but they were not expected to work.
Elder Sarange had then shooed them away to discuss more serious things with him. Eral had departed with a comment about her unruly hair in his usual unpleasant fashion.
They met with the tailor almost first thing, their wardrobes needing immediate updates and additions. Trista wondered, not for the first time, whether the amount of money and magic being put into the Circes season was exorbitant, if not dangerous. She hoped no one had expended their magic for the sake of the luxuries she was enjoying. The thought made her sick to her stomach, and she often found herself dismissing the servants and attendants to do the simple tasks she was used to performing herself, such as cleaning, dressing, and bathing. None of those things required magic, let alone someone else’s.
The feeling of being unmoored only amplified at Spellspire. The halls of the Akeso were known to her, a part of her. She could traverse through them without sight and still discern where the major cracks in the stone were and where the hidden door to the bell tower was. But the castle was impossible to explore fully. Just when Trista thought she knew her way around, she ended up lost in a wing, unable to find her way back to the main area for an entire hour.
Luckily, feeling overwhelmed was a shared experience. Despite growing up in covens, Demurielle and Zyana seemed more comfortable traversing the halls together. Soon, there wasn’t a meal they didn’t meet for. As more covens arrived, they were even more adamant about sticking together. But their budding friendship wasn’t based solely on the mutual desire to not get lost. Being wanted, being asked for her opinions, and having her thoughts and curiosities encouraged were all new experiences for Trista.
The healers, The Mountain Coven, and The Sun Coven, were the first in attendance. The others arrived staggered throughout the weeks, quickly filling the dining hall during meals with hundreds of witches and mages. Trista had never been in a room with so many people. The different accents, their unique fashion, and their relationship to their magic piqued the interest of the natural academic within. She wanted to learn every complexity and intricacy about every coven.
They relied on Demurielle to understand a Circes season’s do’s and don’ts. The sun witch, dragging Zyana with her, would often come to Trista’s room to update her about some goings-on. “Didyouknow,“ Demurielle would begin, and then she would be off, explaining the implications of someone’s behavior and how it affected their relations between covens.
Zyana appeared unimpressed by everything except the pecan hotcakes at breakfast. Trista had yet to see her be happier than when she was shoveling them into her mouth. However, even she found interest in the other covens, especially when they announced the arrival of two foreign ones.
On an overly bright day, a procession was held for both The Coven of Frost and Shadow and The Coven of Sand and Stone. They gathered along the cobblestone path leading up to the castle. Demurielle pulled them to the front of the crowd, apologizing and giving quick excuses of Trista’s height as justification.
The foreign covens arrived with their own entourages. The Majus from The Sand Coven was an older-looking mage who seemed to be judging everyone and everything as he scanned his surroundings. She could imagine him compiling a list of comparisons in his mind. As she looked over his companions, they all had the same air of superiority and pompousness about them. As one picked imaginary lint from his robes, Demurielle scoffed quietly.
