Page 67 of The Coven of Ruin
The ceremony reinforced that the agreement she made with Grae was worth it all. Her main concern was ensuring her friends’ safety, regardless of the consequences. She would deal with any aftermath and the wrath of slighted gods when it came.
This was where she belonged. This was where her loyalties lay.Home.
Chapter XXVIII
Therehearsalsandpreparationsfor the ceremony became unavoidable as the Witch King highly encouraged all Circes members to participate in this process to honor the Mothers, their covens, and each other. One couldn’t exactly snub the king, though Trista noticed that Ares and his band of war gods did just that.
She felt they could get away with it because the mages’ roles weren’t nearly as important as the witches’. They had far less to practice for, mostly needing to be present and willing to share their magic. But The Iron Coven crew didn’t even show up to the single practice that was required of them.
A stern witch, known as the Somner, paced before them with an ornate cane that clacked with her every step. She looked as if she had been alive since the time of the Mothers.
“You’ll be standing for quite a long time. Do not lock your knees for the love of all that is good in this world. You will faint and be either inconspicuously dragged away or left there. You’ll be called forward when it is your time. The pool will be filled with water. After the first couple of witches walk through it, it’ll be full of a glimmering substance that makes the bottom hard to see. Do. Not. Slip.” She tapped the ground with her cane to punctuate each word. Her lips pursed into a wrinkled pucker as she eyed them.
They practiced the timed steps into an empty pool, unable to practice within the sacred place where the ceremony would be held. It was two steps, pause, one step, pause, two steps, pause. That should bring them right to the statues of the Mothers, where they’d place a hand upon each.
“The statues of the Mothers have a piece of their lifeforce confined within the marble itself. It is a privilege to be able to put your hands upon them as it will be the closest you’ll ever be to the Mothers.” She swatted at a witch who was whispering to another. “If the Mothers deign to speak with you,” the older witch continued, “it may seem like they speak for eternity. When you’ve come to again, do not open-mouth breathe at the other attendants. Whereas it may feel like a long time, no time will have passed around you. When the mage above offers you his hands, you will lift both arms and be pulled from the waters. Remember, the outer layer of the dress will have dissolved. Again, do not gawk,” she said the word as if it were a curse, “at yourself or others. Nothing will be exposed, so there is no need to check it. Do we understand?”
The Witches hummed a monotone ‘yes, Somner’ in response.
They practiced far after they should have been released for lunch. It wasn’t until the time for dinner had come and gone that Pavlon, the Witch King’s conciliario, strode in. As he approached the older witch, the green robes of his station billowed behind him. He whispered something to the Somner, and though she was obviously rankled, she gave him a curt nod. When he left the room as quickly as he had come, she clapped her hands twice as her only dismissal. The older witch seemed genuinely concerned that because they hadn’t practiced enough, the ceremony would be cursed—full of slipping witches and wardrobe malfunctions.
They ate dinner in almost absolute silence, their hunger keeping them busy shoveling food into their mouths. Where Zyana looked disgruntled, Demurielle looked exhausted. Her usual flawless complexion and glowing skin looked dull, and dark shadows lingered beneath her eyes.
“I wish I could stay with you two, but the red prince calls,” Demurielle sighed wistfully.
Trista’s fork halted halfway to her mouth, the sauce dripping onto her plate from the vegetable. “What did you just say?”
“I said I wish I could just leave with you two, but the prince is seeing all the—“
“No,” Trista said, abandoning her fork altogether, leaving it to clatter to the plate. “You called him the red prince?”
Demurielle waved her hand. “That’s what they call him sometimes. His name means ‘red’ in one of the Mother’s tongues. It would make more sense if he had red hair or something, of course,” she rambled on.
Trista blinked at her and knew her mouth was working silently before she stood up abruptly. “I have to go. I just remembered I have some work to do for General Reas. Sorry,” she breathed out before leaving them to stare after her.
“Guess I’ll just escort myself back to my rooms then,” Zyana grumbled at her back.
The message had yet to make sense because she had thought the rune was a location or a description, not a person. So even when she had read that it could mean ‘red,’ it made no sense with the words around it. If she changed it out for the red prince, though…
She sprinted halfway up the stairs of the western tower before she had to slow down, heaving for air. Pulling herself up the last half through sheer will, she reached their tower landing. Knocking on Ares’ door, she hoped that anyone answered but him. She didn’t want to deal with his brooding, reticent demeanor tonight.
To her fortune, it was Grae who answered the door, and she didn’t even bother to try and hide her battle to get oxygen in her lungs. Pressing the heel of her palm into her side where a sharp cramp had taken residence, she managed to get out, “Missives, I need to see them.”
Grae opened the door and let her in, and to her surprise, her supplies were where she had last left them. Brune tilted his chin up, the most greeting she had ever received from him before. “Good evening,” she panted as she looked through the parchments with her working translations on them.
“What is going—“ Grae started.
Trista hushed him, not even bothering to look up at him. When she found the parchment, she studied the missive and her notes. “Khaos keep you,” Trista murmured to herself. Reading over the runes, she rearranged the words until a complete sentence took shape, allowing room for creativity and vagueness that always accompanied the messages.
“Gods,” she exclaimed, looking up at Grae and Brune.
“Yes?” Grae retorted. “No need to yell. We are right here.”
Not even bothering to roll her eyes, she read for them, “Khaos keep you. The red prince will dawn in the between. Prepare.”
The god muttered the words back to himself, and Brune cracked his knuckles.
“The red prince is Prince Roan. It uses the rune for dawn or sunrise, but I think it means—“
