Chapter Two: A Witch’s Pyre

What should I do now?

The words reverberate into my very soul. The entire village stands huddled together against the early morning chill. We are awaiting the priest to finish his sermon and light the flame.

The flame that will consume Martell — and my future.

How could this happen? Who would ever want to hurt her?

I am too stricken by grief to hear the others speak their final farewell. Martell was our village witch from before I can remember. She healed us, mended our bones and drove sickness from our blood. She cared for the weak and the wounded. She was wise and patient. She was gentle and kind.

She was gone.

The witch’s pyre begins to burn. A tear escapes from my eyes as the flames lick up the tower, as if the heat can’t wait to devour Martell’s goodness. As if it will burn away her essence, boil it for the skies so the earth can have none.

I always hated the witch funeral rite. It seems that these women should be buried amid the mushrooms and trees that they love so well. Instead the flesh is commended to ash and swept away on the wind, far from home. Far from me.

Forcing myself still, I watch until the flames are no more — until all others have gone. Many villagers throw pitying looks my way as they descend the hill back to the village, but none dare to approach. They have always been frightened of me, the strange magic child with the haunted gray eyes. I can only imagine the shadows in their depths have grown darker today — filled with the knowledge that Martell’s final moments were nothing but terror and agony.

She had been stabbed ten times. Her throat was slit. Her eyes were cut from her skull. But it was her mouth, trapped in a silent scream, that haunts me most of all…

How could a witch as powerful as Martell be outmatched? What had she ever done to deserve such a fate?

I stand until the last tendrils of smoke float to the north — only then do I allow myself to turn away. The descent into the village feels strange. Everyone is going about their day preparing for the harvest. The town counsel has already sent word to the Coven, an elite group of witches who oversee all medicinal and magical practice throughout the Silvan kingdom.

A raven arrived this morning with the Coven’s reply — that they have assigned a replacement for the village, and she should arrive within a fortnight. She may decide to take me as her apprentice and continue to teach me as Martell had done. She may just as likely take on a different ward of her own choosing.

My destiny, once so sure, is now thrown in darkness. I head back to the witch’s cottage. When I enter I cannot help but feel the pulsing absence of Martell. I always felt so comforted inside these walls. Now it rings hollow and silent. I stand before the hearth and perform the minor magic to set a steady flame. Once it is alight I begin work on the Willowbane, making sure to keep my eyes from lingering on the closet.

There was no blood upon the floor or the walls. There was no evidence of a struggle. To me it could only mean one of two things; whoever killed Martell had done it elsewhere and placed her body in the cottage — or the murderer was a powerful magic user themselves who had used a dark spell to hide evidence of their misdeeds.

Dark magic, long forbidden but not forgotten. Martell would speak of it at times, but only in whispered warnings about its dangers. I asked once if she knew any dark spells. It was the first time she ever showed her anger…

Do not even utter such questions, child! Better to cease all thought of it.

I can hear Martell’s reedy voice clearly. That was the last we ever spoke of it.

I crush the delicate Willowbane petals with my pestle and then reach for the other herbs needed to make the cough remedy. I am so caught up in the task that I fail to hear the footsteps behind me until it is too late.

A giant gloved hand comes down hard over my mouth to smother my yelp of surprise. My body goes rigid as the hulking figure crushes me to them. “Make one sound and you’re dead,” he hisses in my ear.

It takes a moment for me to realize that there is a dagger pressed gently to the most delicate part of my throat. I remain as still as possible and wait for him to speak again. This must be Martell’s killer returning. When he’s sure I won’t scream he releases my mouth and demands quietly “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

Who the hell AM I? Anger threatens to bubble up from my throat, and I resist the urge to scream at this deadly man. Instead I simply say. “My name is Maeve. I am…” clearing my throat I correct myself. “I was the witch’s apprentice.”

There is a moment of stunned silence. “I didn’t realize Martell had taken on a ward.” The man releases me immediately, and I spin around to face him. I inhale sharply as I take in the full height of him. He is easily 6’3” inches tall, with intimidatingly broad shoulders, a low brow and severe set to his mouth.

We stare at each other for what seems like an eternity. His hazel eyes meet my gray as if in question — can I trust you? I don’t know what convinces him. Maybe it’s the set line of my jaw or the rounded and traitorously soft look of my cheeks. Maybe it’s the simple fact that he most assuredly could end my life without blinking. Whatever it is, he finally puts his dagger back into its sheath. My breath releases in a gust of relief I didn’t know I was holding. My heartbeat slows slightly, just enough for me to think clearly.

“Who are you?” I ask softly, never releasing his gaze.

He huffs a bitter laugh, turning to stare out at the soft light coming in from the low set windows. There is a sadness in his posture, though I can’t explain how I know. I just feel it, as if the grief rolling off him is a physical wave.

“You can’t guess?” He asks.

“No.”

He turns again to me and there is a resigned smile. “Well I guess she kept secrets from both of us then, Maeve,” a gloved hand reaches out in greeting. I take it without thought, aware of how strange this whole interaction has been. “My name is Sorell. Martell was my mother. “