The Impaled Bride

by Rhiannon Frater

  “Which was her right. Sadly, I have a jealous wife.” Balázs admits, rubbing his brow with thick callused fingers.

  “What are you saying? Speak louder!” Soffia takes a few steps forward, but stops when she sees me staring at her. It seems that our hatred and fear are mutual.

  “I am telling my daughter that we are returning home,” Balázs says, his voice booming. Lowering it again, he says to Ágota, “I will explain everything once we are in a more private setting.” With a wave of his hand, the air shimmers with the colors of the rainbow. “Follow me.”

  With a cocky grin at his wife, Balázs steps into the vibrant swirls and vanishes from sight.

  “What is that?” I whisper to my sister.

  With a wild grin, Ágota answers, “Magic.”

  “I know that! But what does it do?”

  “Let us find out!”

  My sister takes hold of my arm and guides me after her father. I am a little leery of the shimmer. Magic is not always kind to mortals and, additionally, I fear it might be some sort of trap. Ágota may be ready to trust her father, but I am not. Rubbing the symbol on my ring, I resolve to trust my sister and be brave.

  “This is rather exciting,” Ágota declares with a gleeful expression on her face.

  When we step through the rippling air, I instinctively hold my breath, for it is as if we are being submerged in water. Instead of swimming, we stand on a very narrow path that resembles frozen ice inside a long, iridescent tunnel that arches over the valley to the castle. As though it is a prism, the rippling air transforms the sunlight funneling through it. Splotches of color dance over our skin and we giggle together with delight.

  “What is this, Father?” Ágota calls out.

  Striding ahead, the big man says over one shoulder, “A ley bridge. There are a not many left in this world. When I found this one, I built the castle near it.”

  “So you did not make it, Father?”

  Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Oh, no. The Ancients created this and they are long gone from this world and the Witch World.”

  The other witches appear through the portal and follow us, but at a careful distance.

  I stare with fascination through the distorted image of the world outside the path. I am tempted to touch the undulating, colorful magic, but fear it may pop it like a bubble.

  “Can they see us? The people out there on the farms and in the town?” I dare to query.

  “No, little one, they cannot. We are hidden from them.”

  “Are you afraid of your enemies finding this bridge?” I continue my questions while we walk behind him, my curiosity spurred by this strange passageway.

  “No. Only witches and fey folk can use it.”

  I cast a sharp, fearful look at Ágota. Will I suddenly be ousted from the bridge when it discerns my mortal blood?

  She winks at me while mouthing, “Ring.”

  “Since I rule the witches and have accords with the fey, I do not fear an incursion. Of course, fairies sometimes find their way inside and cause a bit of trouble, but that is their nature.” Balázs strolls along the pathway as it descends at a slope toward his castle. “Besides—I have wards to warn me when peculiar witches appear in my territory.”

  “I set it off on purpose, you know,” Ágota says, a bit insulted.

  Balázs’s chuckle is his only response.

  I peer down at my feet to see the bridge undulating with colorful lights. There are cracks in the surface, which I find curious. Is the magic fading? And who are the Ancients? I glance over my shoulder at Soffia and the other witches following in our wake. Soffia’s face is set in a scowl and the witches behind her look none too pleased either. The men and women of Balázs’s coven definitely are not inclined to be welcoming to Ágota or accepting of her as the Archwitch. Ágota is worthy of the title and their hostility provokes me to dislike them all.

  When we arrive at the castle, we pass through a stone wall—that flows around us as though it is dark water—and step out into a great hall as formidable as the one in Gratz. The ceilings are high and curved with rafters crossing overhead and the hanging banners have a gold backdrop with a flaming tree emblazoned in the forefront. The furniture is heavy and decorative with carvings of all sorts of supernatural creatures. Sunlight pours through high stained-glass windows to paint the stone floor with dazzling hues. The hearth is enormous and a fire burns bright beneath a massive black cauldron. Scattered across the room, lounging in the warm pools cast by the sunbeams, are cats of all colors and breeds.

  The other witches arrive behind us through the portal and I scrutinize each one as they appear. I like the looks of a rotund lady with masses of red hair and rosy cheeks. A warm smile touches her lips and she does not regard us with contempt. Much to my surprise, a dour man with lank silver hair and a scruffy face unexpectedly winks at me. A younger man with brown hair, pale brown eyes, and a handsome face downright scowls when he spots me scrutinizing him, so sides are obviously being taken.

  “This is your new home,” Balázs says, gesturing to our grand surroundings. “I will arrange for a room to be prepared. I assume you will want to bed together.”

  “Yes,” Ágota says rapidly. “At least for now.”

  “Balázs, you cannot!” Soffia protests.

  “I rule here, Soffia. I am the leader of this land and this coven. I am choosing to offer a home to my daughter and her sister. This is my right. No one is to come against either one of these young ladies. If you do, I will unleash my wrath. I may not be an Archwitch, but I am a Grandwitch.”

  “Should they not be tested?” the scowling handsome man asks.

  “A test, Fülöp?” Balázs smirks. “She resembles me in face and manner, knows the name I gave her and her mother’s name, and carries the Archwitch’s magus bag. I suspect her mother’s book is inside. Yes?”

  Ágota dramatically pulls out the book and the witches gasp.

  “See! What other test should I give her?”

  Soffia approaches us warily, her eyes flicking between Ágota and me. “The Mirror of Verity. Let it reveal if there is any duplicity. A hidden glamour.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, Balázs motions to one of the younger male witches closest to him. “Petri, bring forth the mirror.”

  The blonde-haired witch dashes off into the depths of the castle, his long tunic flapping around skinny legs.

  “What does the mirror do?” I boldly ask.

  “It reveals the truth of who you are even through spells and glamours of all kinds,” Balázs replies. “Nothing can hide from it.”

  “That belonged to my mother,” Ágota says, her mouth close to a snarl. “When she had to flee with me, she left it behind.”

  “We will speak of all that later, Ágota.” Balázs’s visage and tone demonstrate the need for Ágota to set the matter aside for a more appropriate time.

  With a huff, Ágota crosses her arms and glowers at anyone who dares catch her eye.

  “Afraid?” Soffia asks, her gaze cruel and her tone taunting.

  “Of you? No. I am not a mere babe in my crib anymore. I am the Archwitch.”

  “We shall see if your claim is true.”

  My sister and the woman who attempted to murder her regard each other with contempt. My fingers fall to the sheath at my side as the desire to sink my little blade into Soffia’s heart surges to life. I would not dare do such a thing in front of so many formidable witches, but the thought appeals to me.

  Petri returns with a handheld mirror draped in a black cloth. The handle is bronze and green with age. With great care, he offers it to Balázs. I discern he’s a little afraid of the magical mirror, which I find very intriguing since it was once one of my mother’s possessions. She must have been very frightened indeed to leave such a powerful object behind. I finger the hilt of my dagger while casting a malevolent look at Soffia.

  Ágota taps my arm, captures my attention, and signals with her eyes that I should be attentive to the ritual at hand
.

  Feeling rather obstinate and bold, I ask, “How does it work?”

  Balázs bends toward me while pulling the cloth from the reflective surface. The handle and back of the mirror are most certainly bronze and very old. The reflective surface shimmers without a scratch despite the passage of time. On the reverse side there are sculpted figures of women dancing, but the finer details have eroded.

  “You peer into it, Erzsébet.” He holds the mirror in front of me and I am surprised to see my face in vivid detail. I stare at the much younger version of my mother’s face tucked between matching black braids. This is the first time I have ever seen myself with such clarity. Our old mirrors in the cottage had been warped and cloudy.

  “I am pretty!” I exclaim.

  This elicits a laugh from several of the witches, but Soffia fumes.

  Balázs leans his face next to mine and I am shocked to see a very handsome young man. The scars, the wrinkles, and the silver in his hair have vanished. I gasp and turn my head to stare at his much older face.

  “It is a glamour. I need to appear to age to my mortal servants. Witches age very slowly after we reach maturity. We live many lifetimes with different names and faces. One day, I will change my face and name and this version of me will supposedly die.”

  “You look a lot more like Ágota with your true face,” I remark.

  Ágota peers at the mirror and smirks. “I do wear your features better.”

  In the mirror, she is the same young woman as always. I do notice her eyes glow slightly in her reflection, but otherwise, there is no difference. Soffia tromps over to us to peer into the mirror to scrutinize Ágota’s reflection and mine. I glimpse a much younger, prettier version of Balázs’s wife when she leans close. She, too, is glamoured.

  Without a word, she storms across the floor and through a doorway. It clangs shut behind her.

  “Is this proof enough?” Balázs’s voice sounds dangerous.

  The coven members all nod, some with great reluctance.

  “I need to speak to my daughter and her sister. You may go.”

  I am satisfied when a few witches, including the red-haired lady and the man with the silver hair, bow their heads to Ágota before departing. When the last of them leaves the great hall, Balázs covers the mirror and gestures with it toward a different door.

  In silence, we follow him.

  “We need privacy to discuss what I plan to do with the two of you,” he says to us, winking.

  The new room is tidy with a large desk covered in ledgers and papers, a bookcase filled with books, and a huge chair with a back that is carved to resemble a burning tree. Seating himself behind the desk in the impressive chair, Balázs holds the mirror toward Ágota.

  “This is yours by right, Ágota. You were correct. Viorica did leave the mirror behind when she fled with you.”

  Ágota plucks it from his hand with a satisfied look and stores it in her bag. “What else do you have that belonged to my mother?”

  “A few items that I will return to you. They do rightfully belong to you. Especially since you are the Archwitch.”

  With a nod of her head, Ágota leans her hip against the edge of his desk and waits for him to speak. I linger near the door, still uncertain of how much we should trust her father. Balázs settles back in his chair and drops his glamour. It is strange to watch him become a much younger version of himself. He now looks more like Ágota’s older brother.

  “I am glad you’ve come here, Ágota, but your presence does complicate matters.”

  “Why should that matter? You are my father. I am an Archwitch. The coven will have to accept the truth.”

  “Oh, they are already accepting it, but they are not happy about it. In the old world, the Archwitches taught the newly ascended ones the exalted magicks. Unfortunately, they all died attempting to hold the portal open between our world and this one.” With a sad sigh, he runs his hand over his hair. “Viorica was young and untrained. She had to learn on her own. I will guide you to the best of my abilities, but your power far exceeds mine. That is why the book you carry is so valuable. It will guide you when I cannot.”

  “How many Grandwitches are there?” Ágota asks.

  Balázs holds out his arms. “Only me.”

  “Oh!” I approach his desk and lean my elbows on the surface to stare at him. “Are you the king of the witches?”

  “No, no. Maybe. A little like one. There are not many of us left, you know.”

  Ágota frowns. “We are hard to kill though. How can that be?”

  “Our enemies learned to burn us. That is why we hide and tread carefully when interacting with humans.”

  Ágota sets her long hands on the edge of the table beside me and leans toward her father, eyebrows lowering. “My mother told me to come to you if she died. She also said you loved me, but she could not trust you to stop Soffia. That you were smitten with her.”

  “I arrogantly believed I could broker peace between them. I married Soffia because I loved her deeply. I still do, I suppose. Viorica was the woman I had loved since childhood, but I was wise enough to understand she would never marry. She could not. So much of the magic of our old world was hidden inside her and her legacy would be a new Archwitch. She refused to marry because she did not want a man to claim that power and raise the future Archwitch to serve him.”

  “Men are fools,” I say. “Mother always said so.”

  Balázs casts a sorrowful look in my direction. “Men are fools. They love power. All kinds of power and they will do just about anything to obtain it. That is why there are so many wars. Your mother was correct in that regard. I also acknowledge my own foolishness in not recognizing the danger of Soffia’s jealousy even though she agreed that I should sire the new Archwitch.”

  “She agreed?” Ágota gaps at him in disbelief.

  “I did love your mother, Ágota, but I was chosen by the coven elders to be your father. It was a decision made to preserve the Archwitch power and legacy.”

  “Because you are a Grandwitch and there were no other Archwitches about, you were the most likely candidate to father a new one with my mother.” My sister lowers her head, her hair falling over her face as she ponders this new information. At last, she raises her eyes to gaze at her father. “I see the wisdom in that decision. And you complied out love for your people and my mother. ”

  “I am glad you understand. I worried you would believe you were born out of duty and not love.”

  “I was born out of both.”

  “Yes, which is why I am so pleased you have returned.”

  I pound a small fist on his desk. “But your wife was so jealous and angry, she tried to kill my sister!”

  Balázs exhales with frustration. “Yes. When she saw my great joy at your birth, Ágota, she could not accept what I had done was for our people and to preserve the magic of the Witch World in the ascendance of a new Archwitch. Soffia was aware that I had long hoped your mother would marry me and she feared that your birth only solidified my love for your mother. Soffia did not believe me when I said my love rested with her.”

  “Does it still?” I ask.

  “You are so bold, little one. Just like your mother.” Balázs frowns, then shrugs. “I love her, but what she did to Viorica and Ágota changed much between us. Now that you are here, Ágota, what was left between my wife and I will be sorely tested.”

  “We can leave and spare you,” Ágota says, lifting her chin and sniffing loudly.

  “I longed to have you with me, Ágota. I have loved you since before you were born. You are my daughter, and you are an Archwitch. My duty lies with you on both fronts.”

  Ágota’s shoulders slump and her chin sags. She lets out a deep breath before she cocks her head to one side to regard her father with relief. “Thank you. The last few weeks have been difficult.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Which reminds me!” Ágota reaches into the bag and withdraws the letter from Albrecht’s fa
ther. “We were guests of Count Dolingen of Gratz, a descendant of The White Woman of the Wood. Do not worry. He is mostly human and very, very dull. He asked me to deliver this letter of introduction to you. It is all rather boring.”

  “Boring or not, this is very worrying. The White Woman of the Wood is powerful. Making deals with her descendants is dangerous, Ágota. The fey can be very tricky.”

  “I only agreed to deliver a letter of introduction. I read it before he sealed it. It is fine.” My sister sounds confident, but her expression grows uncertain. “I was very careful.”

  Concerned with this revelation, Balázs flicks his fingers over the letter and blue light washes over it. “No warding.” He breaks the seal and unfolds the letter. “But there is magic in this... and... there it is.”

  I watch as the letters on the page slide across the parchment to reorder themselves. Ágota stares aghast at this development, her lips parted as though to protest.

  “He fooled you.” I cluck my tongue at her.

  “No! That is not fair! He said I could read it before he sealed it!”

  “And you did. As I said, my daughter: the fey are tricky.” Leaning over the correspondence, Balázs reads, his lips slightly twisting, a habit he shares with Ágota. “Well, Ágota, you have agreed by delivering this letter to the arranged marriage between Erzsébet and Albrecht, the son of the count.”

  “No!” Ágota whirls about in a fury. “No! No!”

  Turning his attention to me, Balázs says, “You do not seem upset at this development.”

  “I like Albrecht. I want to marry him,” I reply.

  “Ah, which explains how the spell slipped past your sister. You had already agreed.” Balázs smiles at me. “Well, I do not have to worry about your future, do I?”

  I shake my head. “No. I will be a noblewoman. Someday I will wear a fancy red and gold dress and have a ruby necklace.”

  “This sounds very particular, Erzsébet.”

  “Ágota told me.”

  Balázs focuses on his daughter, who is pacing about muttering furiously to herself. Pointing at her, he says, “I do that too when I am upset.”

  Ágota stops, spins toward him, and waves a shaking finger in his face. “Undo it!”