Magic twitched in my fingers as I scattered the last of the sage and salt over my sister’s grave. I was alone, kneeling in the thin mist that always hovered over the village cemetery at this time of day.
A prickling sensation crept down my spine, the tell-tale sign someone was watching me. I whipped my head around, scanning for the voyeur. Out of the corner of my eye, crimson flashed behind an ash tree. My heart beat a pitter-patter while my fingers finished their hasty work.
Three months ago, my storm of magic had killed my sister, and I was sentenced to serve the Sisters of the Light. Each month I snuck out of the temple to draw a rune of protection over my sister’s grave. The Feast of Mabon was coming, and during the winter months, the barrier between my village and the forest grew thin. The wood was alive with demon-kind, controlled by the Queen of the Wildwood. I feared my sister’s soul would join the wild creatures of the wood when winter blanketed the land with frost.
The bone-rattling caw of a coal-black raven made me flinch, and I lifted my head, watching the unusually large bird that perched on a nearby tombstone. It eyed me with contempt, as though it knew my secret and warned me of my impending doom. It was already high noon, much later than I’d realized.
A lump swelled in my throat. I couldn’t be late for rune practice. With haste, I leapt up and ran through the trailing brambles.
When I reached the temple courtyard, a light breeze scattered ash-white cinders, the remains of Fires of Blessing, lit by frequent worshippers. A cloud of silver mist kicked up as I passed and the aroma of mint and lavender wafted through the air. Motes of magic shimmered beneath the layers of dust where runes had been carved deep into the stone floor of the atrium. I swept my pure-white robes past the crevices and quickened my pace as I headed for the stairs that led to the entrance.
High, gray arches loomed over my head like hawking eyes frowning down at my tardiness. The four-story temple had a domed top, and its height seemed to kiss the heavens. It served as both a home for the Sisters of the Light and a fortress should any trouble come to the village.
Broad stairs led to double doors, also carved with runes of protection. I slipped into the shadows of the columns, keeping my footsteps silent lest I disturb the worshippers, villagers who came to recite prayers and offer sacrifices as the Feast of Mabon neared.
Maids in white habits walked silently up and down the atrium, offering candles to the worshippers. One of them made eye contact with me, ducked her head, and then spoke in a tentative quaver. “Mistress Yula?”
I jerked to a stop, eyes narrowed, for the maids rarely spoke to me. In fact, the Sisters of the Light went out of their way to avoid me, except to give orders and make sure I knew my place in the sacred ritual. They needed me, although they feared the strength of my magic. Even the worshippers who visited the temple avoided eye contact when they saw me. I knew they blamed me for my sister’s untimely death.
Because of my unpredictable magic, I was not allowed to leave the temple. It was my prison and the use of my magic for the ritual during the Feast of Mabon what they deemed a fitting atonement. Swinging from the hanging tree by my neck would have been better, for magic raged within me like the wild waves of a sea battered by endless storms. Often, I could not sleep, for guilt weighed heavily upon me. I’d torn my family apart.
My jaw clenched. “Aye?”
“Head Mistress asked me to tell you practice has begun, and you are to take part once you enter.”
Forcing the scowl off my face, I gave her a quick nod. “Thank you.”
The Head Mistress knew I’d left the temple and this was her backhanded way of threatening me. After the whispers I’d overheard from my fellow sisters—whispers of murder, betrayal and contriving to take down the Head Mistress—I was not surprised.
Each time I entered the musky hall of the temple the smell of herbs made my shoulders relax. Massive stones surrounded me, and the air was cool. The walls of the passageway had been painted with bright symbols and scenes of former Sisters of the Light, performing their rituals which drove back the evil that occasionally threatened the land. Even now painters were at work, mixing rich colors and completing a scene of the Feast of Mabon. I tugged my white robes straight as I crept to the gathering.
The ritual chamber was a circular room in the heart of the temple. Above the chamber perched the dome, sending a cascade of graceful light to bless each ceremony. The room was empty aside from a slab of rock by the door, the altar. I’d heard rumors that in the heathen days it was used for human sacrifice, but the Sisters of the Light claimed it was pure myth. A bowl of salt and sage perched on the altar, waiting, and nine of the ten sisters stood in line. There were twelve of us. Ten sisters, including me, the Head Mistress, and her second in command, the Priestess.
Head Mistress paced in front of the nine with her shoulders thrown back. She held her bony body tall and rigid. Because of her height, her white robes barely grazed the freshly scrubbed stone floor.
The nine stood like tender trees of the forest clothed in white robes. Eager faces flushed with innocence waited for their moment to practice the ritual. We were forced to wear similar attire, braid our long hair back and keep our bodies hidden within the folds of our rough robes. Plain and simple were the rules we lived by. Vanity was not tolerated.
“Sisters of the Light.” Head Mistress lifted her hands, palms up. “Again, we join together to prepare for the Feast of Mabon which takes place in three days. North of us lies the enchanted forest, and in the heart of it lies the domain of the Queen of the Wildwood. The Dark Queen. She demands our magic in exchange for protection from the wildings, orc-kind, and the nightmares that dwell in the wood. We conduct this ritual every year at summer’s end. The runes we create with salt and sage give the Dark Queen power to bind the evil of the forest which desires to escape and destroy our world. This ritual is of the utmost importance and a high honor for the Sisters of the Light to perform. You have been chosen because of your strength, your fortitude and, above all, your magic. For it is only with the union of twelve that we can appease the Dark Queen and keep our people, our home, safe for another year.”
I lifted the bowl and went to stand in line with the nine chosen ones. The youngest, Greta, scowled at me when I fell in step beside her. Ignoring her, I stared at the bare wall, all too aware of the way the Head Mistress’ hawkish eyes bored into my skull.
I glanced down at the condition of my robes. Dew-dense grass stained the frayed white hem. If the Head Mistress hadn’t already known about my disobedience, the stains would have been a clear indication that I had betrayed my vows and snuck out of the temple again.
Worry plagued my thoughts, but when the low murmur of blessings filled the temple, calmness seeped through my soul. Practicing my magic was the only thing that made the storm within abate. I spoke the words of blessing and recited the prayer we would say at midnight on Mabon when the season turned to autumn and the wild winds of winter crept near.
The Sisters of the Light vowed to forsake all other duties and an opportunity at normal life. We would never marry, and our vows forced us to remain celibate, but I’d had few experiences with men that made me miss that sort of intimacy. There was only one man who still made me burn, a man who sometimes visited the village, but any chance I had of catching his eye had vanished three months ago when I became a Sister of the Light.
Usually, the sisters were chosen when they were still in their teens, for it was a momentous decision. A choice I had not been able to make. I was already in my twenties, which made me much older than the younger recruits who were still in their blossoming years. The marrying age had come and gone for me.
Given a choice, I would not have joined the Sisters of the Light. But my mother had passed a few years ago, my magic cost my sister her life, and my father was wrapped in grief. Being trapped here, far from all I loved, was my only chance at redemption, although secretly I longed for freedom. A future spent in the cold, lonely halls of the temple only tempted my desire to flee.
The Head Mistress waved her hand, and the practice ritual began. We each had a series of runes to draw. I scattered sage and salt in a circle, allowing the rhythmic movements to slow my frantic heartbeat. I leaned into my work, desperate to forget my sister’s death and the whispers I’d overhead. My tongue suddenly felt swollen in my mouth, and I stumbled, sending a cascade of salt down my robes.
“Yula!” The sharp tsk of the Head Mistress hissed. A hand wrapped around my thick black braid and yanked. “Pay attention, girl. This is the third time you've almost ruined the rune during practice. Runes must be perfect on the night of the blessing, or how will the gifts of the harvest be given to us?”
I silently fumed and kept my eyes downcast. The Head Mistress was fond of humiliating me in front of the others. Despite how much I worked. I’d never be good enough for her.
The flow of the ritual imbued me. The sisters chanted softly under their breaths, expressing gratitude for the past season, the abundance of the harvest, and the balance nature brought to our lives.
Moving in a circular path, we each drew seven runes on the floor. I was on my second one when the shape warped under my hand, turning into a symbol of a slithering snake with a forked tongue.
The mark of the Dark Queen.
The sign of evil froze me as the rune seemed to come to life. The forked tongue flickered in and out, and a low hum of whispers penetrated my thoughts.
Before I could wipe away the evil rune, a crackle of pain riffed across my cheek. My head snapped back, and I dropped the bowl. Eyes wide, I stared as the bowl fell, my heart thudding so hard I thought I’d vomit.
The clay bowl smacked onto the stone floor with a sickening thud and shattered. Jagged shards, white salt, and green sage mingled together in a horrific display of desecration with the evil rune at its center.
With a twist of my fingers, I could undo what had been done, but before I could, a hand snatched at my elbow.
“Stupid girl,” hissed the Head Mistress. “Will you never learn? I should have listened when they brought you to me. You’re wrong. All wrong for this. Your blood will never sing with magic. You bring nothing but calamity on this house.”
My nostrils flared, and a tightness came to my eyes. I did not mean to, but I yanked my arm out of the Head Mistresses’ grasp in an overt display of disrespect in front of my elders.
“It was a mistake,” I said through gritted teeth. But my voice was quite contrary, and my rigid stance would not halt the impending punishment.
“I have given you chance after chance.” The Mistress swept her hand over the salt, extending the magic that put everything into place, just as if it never was.
And then she turned. Her tall, bony figure loomed over me, and her stern face twisted.
I cringed inside. Malice glimmered darkly in the Mistress’s deep-set eyes, and she squared her shoulders. I knew what would come next.
“Sisters of the Light.” Her hard voice cut through the tension in the temple. “Today’s rune practice is dismissed due to the ineptitude of Mistress Yula.” She turned her severe stare directly at me. “Ten lashes for daydreaming, desecrating a holy place with wicked symbols, and violating your vows by leaving the temple. Pain will remind you not to shirk your duties.”
Dread froze my nerves. Ten lashes. With the heavy cane. A whip used to punish boys and yet somehow the Mistress found it useful to challenge the girls who learned the rituals of blessing from her. She taught the magic and extracted pain in exchange. Despite her, I lifted my chin and steeled myself against her power that hurled me against the altar until I was immobilized, bent in place, waiting for the torture to begin.
As the custom, my robe was removed, leaving only my thin shift. Shame. Another punishment. Shame and pain so I would never forget, never make another mistake.
My hands clenched into fists, and I gritted my teeth. I would not cry out. I would not let them see how much this hurt me, both physically and mentally.
The first blow cracked against my thighs and sent a burning wave of heat up my back. The second came just as quickly, setting a blaze on my skin. I worried my lip between my teeth to keep a yelp from escaping as another blow fell. Waves of fire consumed me, and the beating went on as the Head Mistress tried to elicit a sound. It felt as though she used her magic to make the whipping more intense than it should have been.
When at last she finished, I slumped to the ground. Pain laced down my back, bottom, and thighs. Sweat soaked the armpits of my shift and trickled down my forehead. The Head Mistress walked away, putting the cane down on the dais. Then she strode back toward me.
My head rang, but I heard sharp, unkind words pour from her lips, although I could not make sense of them in my confusion. Deep-seated anger rose, and a torrent of fury boiled in my belly. Instead of holding back, I curled my fingers, opened my mouth, and let loose the flood.
Screams were the last thing I heard as my rage exploded, and then I was lost in a violent wind storm.
