The Impaled Bride

by Rhiannon Frater

  “Beg for forgiveness and you can return,” Vlad says, turning to me, his green eyes flashing with red fire. “Bow before me and be restored to your place at my side.”

  “You ask for that which I will never give,” I retort.

  The shadows swallow the couple again, blotting out Cneajna’s stricken expression. I listen to them withdraw from the mausoleum and the heavy clang of the door.

  Pressing my knuckles to my lips, I withhold the sobs of despair and the screams of fury threatening to erupt from my mouth. I will not give him the satisfaction. I tremble with pain and sorrow, but do not call out for them to return.

  My joy at once again seeing her lovely face and hearing her saccharine voice fades in the aftermath of their departure. Vlad will forever be the wedge pushing us apart. Ironic, since he is the one who brought us together so long ago. She may love me, but her devotion is to him. It will always be to him. I have known many women like Cneajna throughout my long lifetime. Women devoted to the men in their lives, bowing to their whims, willing to suffer in silence to make them happy. Vlad has inflicted great pain upon Cneajna, but she will never waver from his side. Even should her love for him one day turn to hate, she will remain. This is the curse of her existence.

  I rest my hand against the stake, but resist the fruitless action of attempting to wrench it from my body. My rejuvenated body continues its attempts to heal the grievous wound surrounding the stake, to no avail. I yearn for the release of another vision. How quickly have my sojourns into the past become a treasured escape from this hell! If I cannot be free to dwell at Cneajna’s side, then I wish to be with my sister in the realm of memory.

  The hours are ticking away, one by one. My heightened vampire senses discern the slightest sounds outside the mausoleum: the whisper of the wind, the scampering of night creatures, the shifting grass scraping against the masonry. Tears linger in the corners of my eyes while I stare at the spot in the discolored ceiling where the stake plunges through the stone.

  “I want to be free,” I whisper.

  “We all do,” Ágota answers. “It is all anyone wants. But the world is not safe for two girls.”

  “But you are an Archwitch,” I protest, my adult voice chorusing the girlish one in my memory.

  I close my eyes to the mausoleum and reopen them to gaze upon my sister.

  Sweet relief is finally mine. The past is my sanctuary.

  “An Archwitch who is still learning.”

  “We should go off and make our own fortune as our mother did.” I am emboldened by our journey and Ágota’s powers. I fancy her making us a fine house with her magic and establishing our own rule over a small town. Then when I marry Albrecht we will be equals.

  “I have power, but I do not know all the ways in which I can wield it.” Ágota holds our mother’s book of spells in her long hands. The sunlight dances across the strands of her dark hair, forcing her to squint when she gazes up at me.

  The last few miles of our journey have been on foot, so I am tired and bad-tempered. I kick at the grass with irritation. “You seem to wield it quite well. I have seen it.”

  “Well enough to get us here, but there is so much more to learn. Mind the circle. Do not break it,” she admonishes me.

  The circle she drew on the ground with the end of the stick glows a vibrant gold in the vast field of wild grass and flowers swaying in the wind. The cool mountain breeze flows over our sun-warmed bodies and cools my heated face. For the last few days, my sister has been plucking all sorts of leaves, herbs, flowers, seeds, stones, bits of bark, insect wings, and even bits of fur she found on a thorn into a small bag. Now she has it set before her on the ground with white crystals set around it.

  “I do not see why you could not fly us.” I squat next to her, pouting.

  “My father is a witch. His wife is a witch. Most likely a good portion of their court are witches. Who knows what wards he has cast that I could accidentally trip if I were to approach using magic. I want to appeal to him in peace, not have him descend on me like a demon. We are just outside of his territory. I want to be properly prepared before we enter it.” She plucks a black strand from my head and ignores my protest.

  “Why did you do that?”

  Ágota ignores me. Digging into the moist ground with her fingers, she mutters under her breath. She takes my hair and the pinch of dirt and mushes them together before adding the mess to the small pouch. Lips silently moving, she consults the book again.

  I grow bored watching her and gaze over the field toward the castle in the distance. It is not very large, and the town at its base is a modest size. The walls are high and banners with a flaming tree flutter in the wind. Carts, horses, and travelers on foot wind their way along the mountain pass toward the large gate. I crane my head to peer up at the Carpathian Mountains shrouded in thick gray clouds. The air is moist and smells of coming storms. I have never been here before, yet Transylvania seems very familiar. Though my father ruled Moldavia, he was born in Transylvania. Perhaps my affinity for this new place is because of my heritage.

  Ágota’s breathy chanting draws my attention back to her. Eyes rolled back into her skull, she sways as her hands hover over the small pouch. The protective circle around us glows ever brighter and her fingers twitch as arcs of white magic pulse out of the tips. There is a burst of white light from the small bag and then the world grows very still. Even the grass and wildflowers stop swaying as the breeze comes to a halt. Magic trembles in the air and pricks against my skin. There is a loud pop and the world springs back into motion.

  “Did it work?” I am uncertain of what she is doing, therefore unclear as to what I should expect.

  Ágota’s eyes return to normal and she plucks the pouch from the ground. With a gleeful grin, she pulls it open and upends it onto her lap. A small ring falls out.

  “It worked!” Ágota plucks the ring from the folds of her skirt and stares at it with delight. “Is it not lovely?”

  The ring appears to be made of bronze and is adorned with intricate carvings on the band. Peering closer, I see that the engravings depict the elements Ágota used in its creation, including a tree, a wolf, herbs, flowers, and more. The stones are fused together into a large oval, one the color of my hair. The center of the stone is engraved with a mysterious arcane symbol.

  Ágota grabs my hand and thrusts the ring onto my forefinger. “Never take this off.”

  I stare at the ring, a little repulsed by its appearance, for it is rather ugly. “Why not?”

  “This ring will allow me to protect you. It is a channel for my power. It connects us.” Ágota kisses me on the cheek and stands. “Now I am ready to face my father.”

  “Why did not you make this before?” I recall the foreboding silent forest and the strange man beside the stream.

  “I had to wait until we were here. In the land where we will live. I needed earth from the soil we’ll live on, eat from, and probably die on.”

  “That sounds awful, Ágota.”

  With a bright laugh, she says, “Does it not? But magic is sometimes awful.”

  “Can I wear it around my neck on a chain instead?”

  Ágota wags her head at me. “No. On your finger. That’s what the spell says. Do not be difficult.”

  “I am not! Cannot you make it prettier?” I waggle my fingers at her.

  “Ugh!” My sister throws up her hands in annoyance as she scuffs out the protection circle with her toes. “It does not have to be pretty!”

  A thunderous roar rumbles across the field. I jump with fright, lifting my eyes to the darkening sky. Lightning flashes through the cloud cover in a burst of vibrant, almost blinding light.

  “Ágota, what is it?”

  My sister does not answer me.

  I turn about to see her standing between me and maybe a dozen men and women clad in long dark cloaks. Arms thrust out to her sides, she flexes her fingers, a clear warning to the newcomers. Dark hair rippling about her shoulders, she says, “
Erjy, come stand behind me.”

  Warily, I obey while the strangers watch my every move.

  “Announce yourself!” an enormous man, taller than I have ever seen before, barks at Ágota. He is obviously the leader, for his cloak is more ornate and he wears a simple bronze circlet on his head. Masses of dark curly hair fall to his wide shoulders, but his beard is fiery red. White scars crisscross his face beneath heavily-lidded hazel eyes. I perceive my sister in his features and deduce this is Balázs.

  “Ágota, Archwitch of the Lost Witch World,” my sister answers, lifting her chin defiantly.

  Standing at Balázs’s side, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair braided and looped over one shoulder snarls with contempt. “A liar.”

  “There is only one Archwitch,” Balázs says, his dark eyebrows lowering over his fierce gaze.

  “Viorica, my mother, is dead at the hands of Lucifer the Devil,” Ágota answers. “I am her heir and the new Archwitch.”

  Balázs’s fierce look softens, and he takes a hesitant step forward. “Ágota? Truly?”

  “More lies! Kill her!” the blonde woman orders.

  The men and women standing behind her shift their gaze to Balázs, waiting for him to confirm this command from his wife.

  “Soffia, she must be tested! She knows the name I gave my daughter,” Balázs responds. “She knows the name of the Archwitch.”

  “A pretender! There have been others!” Soffia pivots toward her husband and meets his worried gaze with her own venomous one. “Viorica is long dead and her bastard with her. Do not fall for the lies of your enemies.”

  Balázs regards Ágota with a thoughtful, yet dangerous expression upon his scarred face. “She looks like me.”

  Soffia scoffs at him. “She looks like a peasant.”

  “Who is that?” Balázs asks, pointing at me.

  “My younger sister,” Ágota replies. “Erzsébet.”

  “She looks like Viorica,” Balázs says to his wife.

  This remark does me no favors for I witness raw hatred fill Soffia’s eyes when she regards me.

  “Kill them. They are pretenders. This is a ruse of your enemies. Viorica is dead. There is no longer an Archwitch.”

  I tilt my heard to observe my sister’s fury plain on her face. Fingers flexing in the air, the air shifts and distorts about them. I can feel her magic building, fully expecting for her to unleash it. I take another step back, accidentally stepping out of the circle.

  A burst of red magic engulfs my body and sends me hurtling through the air. The magic fills me, boiling my insides, and the agony is unbearable. Soffia’s laughter rings in my ears as I burn. I try to call out my sister’s name, but all that comes from my lips is a shrill scream. Instantaneously, I am released from my torment. The magic flows back out of me, pouring through my mouth like a red flame, and engulfs Soffia in an inferno.

  Held aloft in the air by the magic, I am stunned.

  Have I finally manifested magic?

  “Stop!” Balázs commands me.

  Soffia staggers as the magical assault vanishes. One of the other male witches hurries to catch her as she falls. The terror in Soffia’s eyes matches her loathing. She will not be so easily dissuaded from attempting to kill me again.

  I float to the ground and land at my sister’s side. My clothing and flesh are unscathed, the magical assault leaving no wounds. My forefinger tingles where the ring rests, revealing the purpose of it. It was not I who deflected the attack, but my sister through me.

  “If my little sister can do that, imagine what I can do,” Ágota says haughtily.

  Balázs chuckles. “Ágota, my daughter, Archwitch of the Lost Witch World, I welcome you home.” Throwing out his arms, he approaches her slowly and warily.

  Ágota smirks and hugs the massive man. “And what a welcome it was!”

  I gaze past Ágota and her father to the other witches and see that they are not so inclined to receive her. The faces of these lower male and female witches are suspicious and aloof. Soffia climbs to her feet and is steadied by the other witches.

  I clasp my hands before me, my fingers tracing over the engraving on the enchanted ring. Over and over again, I trace the delicate lines, memorizing them as I watch my sister embrace her father and a new life.

  My vision dims, so I close my eyes to the past.

  Drawing the shears from beneath my skirt, I set the sharp point against the surface I am lying upon. Carefully, I carve the symbol into the stone. Will it help protect me? I am not certain, but I must do all I can to escape this place. I run my finger over the carving, then set the instrument to its task again.

  If there are any remnants of Ágota’s power in this world, perhaps I can summon it to me so I can at last find freedom.

  Chapter 12

  I awaken in my mausoleum to the clatter of Magdala’s shears striking the ground. Disoriented, I sense that the sun has fallen below the horizon. I had fallen asleep while etching Ágota’s protection sigil into the bier, the shears still clutched in my grip. My fingers must have twitched as the vampire slumber released me. I lament the loss of the instrument, but I am satisfied with how deep I managed to carve the symbol. My fingertips lightly trace over the lines. It is crude, but perhaps it will gather whatever is left of Ágota’s magic. She made a promise, wove a spell, and I hope it still remains embroidered into the fabric of this world.

  Hope.

  I have so little left within my soul, yet I cling to what remains despite my circumstances. Should I find a way to escape, I will be woefully alone. I cannot return to Vlad’s side no matter how much I yearn for him since he will only attempt to subjugate me once again. Therefore, I have lost Cneajna because she will never leave his side. Worse yet, my sister is long gone from this world.

  The memory of the first time we met Balázs has stirred long forgotten moments I shared with my sister. They drift upward, like dust stirred by a footfall, filling my mind. Ágota was so bold the day we first faced Balázs’s coven. I had been so proud of her. Little did we understand we were stepping deeper into a snare that would set us on a course that would eventually rip us apart. In spite of my resolve, I weep for my sister, myself, and the choices we made that sealed our fates.

  In our innocence we doomed ourselves.

  Yet I cannot surrender myself to this existence. My mother never yielded to her enemy and neither did Ágota. Both of them fought against the men that sought to destroy them, and though they lost in the end, it is their defiance that emboldens me. I am not foolish. Should I escape Vlad will follow to kill or enslave me, but I will fight him to the bitter end.

  “Oh, sweet memory, come to me and grant me the illusion of freedom,” I call out, hoping I can somehow summon the magic that transports my mind through the ages.

  The tendrils of magic arise in the mausoleum.

  I feel the call of the past and, elated, surrender to it.

  My passage from one reality to another is in the blink of an eye. One moment I am staring at the ceiling of the mausoleum, the next I am standing at my sister’s side. I welcome the breeze on my face, the storm brewing overhead, and the presence of my sister at my side. I am not as keen on the gathering of witches that are glowering at me and my sister. Revisiting the past involves remembering the not so pleasant aspects of my life.

  I peer around Ágota at the man embracing her. Gripping her shoulders, the harshness in his face fades into a smile

  “My Ágota, all grown and beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?” My sister scoffs at him. “I look like you and you are ugly!”

  “You wear these features better than I!”

  “Truer words have not been spoken this day,” she retorts.

  I definitely see the resemblance: the slightly hooked nose, the wide mouth, the slight tilt to their eyes. No one could look at the two and not presume they are related. They even have the same arrogance in the angle of their chins while they regard each other.

  Balázs shifts his gaze to me
, and his eyes narrow slightly. “Explain who this is?”

  “I told you. My sister, Erzsébet.”

  “She is definitely not mine. Far too pretty. The age is all wrong.”

  There is hurt in his voice, which I find ironic. He was married to Soffia when my mother gave birth to Ágota. Surely he must have realized my mother was free to find another man should she choose to since they were not wed.

  “I am not yours,” I reply. “I am the daughter of—”

  “An unknown man,” Ágota says, cutting me off as deftly as a sharp knife.

  “A witch according to her power,” Balázs says thoughtfully. “Who would dare sire her?” His gaze flicks to the men in the group gathered around Soffia.

  The comment is disquieting and I ponder the meaning of it.

  “It does not matter who her father is. She is my sister, and I ask that you take us into your household and treat us as equals.” Ágota’s fingers tighten around the strap of the magical bag hanging across her torso. Would Ágota leave if he denies her request?

  “Let us speak of that in...” he glances at his wife and the other witches “... a more private setting.”

  Seeing him look her way, Soffia cries out, “These are not witches! They are changelings sent to undermine you. Cannot you see that? Viorica and her daughter are dead.”

  “What proof do you have of the Archwitch’s demise?” Balázs shifts on his feet so he can face his wife. “Did you send assassins after her after I forbade you not to?”

  Appearing offended, Soffia retorts, “No, of course not! But they have not been seen in years!”

  “That’s because mother was in the Kingdom of Germany,” Ágota whispers to Balázs.

  His bushy eyebrows lift in surprise. “Oh? I did not think to look that far away. I searched for her in Moldavia and Bohemia.”

  Ágota shrugs a shoulder. “Someone trying to kill me did not sit well with her. She wanted to make sure I was safe by moving us far away.”