At that declaration, I understand my argument is lost. Ágota will never bow to my pleas. The fervency of her love washes over me and despite my stubborn nature, I surrender to her wishes. The doorway between Gratz and the vineyard will be created and I will use it every New Moon to join the coven in rituals. Though I fear for her, I also know she was the most powerful witch of us all.
What we do not account for in all our arguments is that there are forces greater than her waiting to strike.
Chapter 22
I am weak.
Untethered.
Lost and drifting again.
Though I am certain I am still a captive of the mausoleum, I am no longer aware of the dank tomb. There is only darkness occasionally pierced by the transcendence of memory.
Am I near death?
Has Vlad at last abandoned me?
Should I be afraid, or embrace the possibility of release from my immortal life?
Beyond the Veil I will find my sister and mother waiting to embrace me. I long to see their faces and hear their voices. Yet, hope still stirs in my soul for a life beyond captivity. For as long as I am tangled in the fine strands of this spell there is a sliver of a chance I may yet be freed by my sister's magic.
Ágota vowed to protect me and my sister never lied to me.
In that regard, we were much alike.
The world solidifies into the great hall.
A fire is stoked in the enormous hearth, casting an orange glow over the four witches tending to the cauldron. Ágota has chosen Henrietta and her two apprentices, Marianna and Cristina, to help in the preparation. They murmur in sing-song voices while dipping their hands into spell bags suspended from the mantle. In perfect harmony, they add ingredients to the concoction and take turns stirring the spell. The lip of the pot reaches their waists, making it an arduous task to stir the thick liquid within with a long ladle. Bits of magic spiral out of the concoction to sparkle over the heads of the witches and chase away the gloom to the corners of the great hall. The atmosphere is heavy with the building spell, the air trembling with power. Balázs’s cats sit in a semi-circle behind the witches, their long tails sweeping the floor as their keen eyes watch the proceedings.
I linger in the doorway, observing the four women with longing. My desire to assist my sister in casting the spell is thwarted by my magic. There is too much chaos, death, and pain interwoven in the power of a battlewitch. It could upset the delicate balance of the spell. Wishing never to endanger my sister, I willingly stepped aside. Now I watch from a careful distance for I am still apprehensive. I fear that the spell is far too dangerous for Ágota to cast.
“Do not doubt her. She can perform the spell,” Balázs says as he joins me on the threshold.
“Perhaps, but I am not worthy of the sacrifice should she die,” I retort.
“Still angry I see.”
“How can I not be? Ágota is the greatest amongst us. We should not risk her life in this manner. We are safe here. Fülöp would never dare come against the coven. He may have numbers, but the most powerful witches stand with you.”
Balázs takes me by the shoulders and turns me toward him. The dour look on his face is deepened by the shadows. “You are young and convinced that you are right. I am old and have lived long enough to know that peace is to be cherished, for upheaval can come at any moment. I have heard your arguments, Erzsébet. I wish I had your certainty, but I do not. Should Fülöp come against us – or any other enemy – you will be needed. You are our battlewitch.”
“You survived before without me,” I grumble.
“And many died.”
The words strike like a dagger into my soul. I cannot deny the validity of his commentary for it identifies the weak point of my argument. I am rankled, but do not respond even though it is not in my nature to shirk away from any sort of battle, physical or verbal. All my arguments rest on my tongue, but it is fruitless to engage once again. The decision to perform the spell has been made by both the Archwitch and the Grandwitch. The coven will follow their lead and my protestations are for naught.
I set my chin at a defiant angle and press my lips together to suppress a heated retort.
“Erzsébet, I love you and understand your desire to have the life you dream of with Albrecht. But I must do what is right for the coven.”
“Can she succeed at this task you have set before her? Can my sister truly create a gateway between here and Gratz? I need your reassurance for I am frightened for her.”
“Yes, she can,” Balázs says with certainty.
Scrutinizing his expression, I detect no sign of doubt. I wish I could be so confident. “I believe in Ágota’s abilities, but she is just one Archwitch. Many of these spells are for a trinity of Archwitches.”
“I hear your concerns, Erzsébet, but she is more powerful than you realize. Stay back and let her do what she must. Your doubts and anger might taint the spell or disrupt her connection to the nearby ley lines. Remain in your room and wait.”
The words sting fiercely, like hornets stirred from a nest. “If I am so destructive, why have me about at all!” I exclaim before gathering my skirts and hurrying away.
Balázs is wise and does not try to follow.
Once inside my bedchamber, I stalk about, muttering angrily. I feel childishly petulant because my loved ones dismissed my arguments. Despite my protestations otherwise, Balázs and Ágota’s assertions have whittled away at my confidence. I had thoroughly convinced myself that my absence would not be a danger to the coven, but if Balázs and Ágota are willing to risk her life to open a gateway, they must be truly worried. I had refused to consider that I was shirking my responsibilities, but I am now feeling the sharp sting of guilt.
I halt before one of the windows to gaze upon the vineyards spreading over the rolling hills. It is a beautiful sight with the sun dipping low and a pale mist drifting along the ground near the Danube River. If I had never met Albrecht, I would have been satisfied to stay with my family and fellow witches until I found love with someone else. But fate introduced me to Albrecht, and I have loved him from the very beginning. That love has only deepened as I have read his letters that are filled with plans and hopes for our future together. I may desire another life, but am I willing to risk the witches to ensure my happiness?
I abandon the view and lay on the bed. I wish Valentini would join me, but all the cats are gathered in the great hall to assist Ágota. Though I have yet to ascertain why he decided to befriend me, I do appreciate his company. Feeling his small, furry body against my back while I sleep is a gentle comfort. When he is an affectionate lump against my side, it is easy to forget that at one time I saw him grow larger than a bear and fight wolves.
Digging under my pillows, I pull free the letters Albrecht has sent me over the years. I set them beneath my heart and play with the ends of the red ribbon wrapped around the stack. The weight is a pleasant, palpable connection between my beloved and me. I am torn between my desire to be with him and my obligations to my family and coven. The absolute surety that I was right and my sister was wrong has abandoned my consciousness the closer the time comes for the spell to be cast.
Closing my eyes, I seek refuge in imaginings of the future. I attempt to envision Albrecht lying beside me, his lips hovering over mine. I have never amorously kissed anyone and am obsessed with the notion. I once pestered Ágota, demanding details on how it felt to experience that sort of intimacy. She scowled while declaring I would have to feel it for myself, since her romantic involvements are only with women. Resting on my bed, I fantasize about my life with Albrecht far from here until I fall asleep.
My dreams are filled with romantic interludes that never come to fruition. Each one starts with the promise of romance when Albrecht appears and takes me by the hand to guide me to a beautiful garden or another lovely setting. He is handsome, kind, and attentive as we converse. Inevitably, his head dips closer to mine, and I wait for the precious moment our lips touch. Before our l
ove is consummated with a kiss, a shadow falls over Albrecht, and he vanishes from my arms. I become more and more desperate, for in every dream he is drawn into darkness by unseen forces. Frustration tears at me as I rush after him over and over again, lost in shadows, and unable to find him.
The dreams grow more ominous until at last Albrecht does not appear at all.
“Erzsébet! I have lost you!” he cries out from the dark.
“Albrecht! I am here!”
I awaken in a damp bed, feeling feverish and flushed. The room has dimmed for the sun has vanished from the sky and the new moon is rising. A single candle casts a weak glow over my bed. I sit on the edge of my bed, afraid and confused by my nightmares, for that was what they were—nightmares most foul. I am crushed beneath the grief of losing Albrecht and it is difficult to separate my dreams from reality. Dread fills me completely, abolishing all other emotions. It is as though I am teetering on the edge of an abyss and unable to regain my balance.
The absolute terror that I am about to lose all I desire amplifies when I notice the spell has been cast. The magic is so potent, I can taste it on my tongue and smell it in the air. Overcome, I stagger from my bed to the nearest window. Beyond the panes of glass, the sky is an ominous sickly dark green. The ley line that slices through our vineyard brightens as Ágota connects with it to open the gateway. I shift my gaze to the witches gathered in the courtyard below. They have closed the circle around Ágota, Henrietta, Marianna, and Cristina.
Fog drifts off the Danube and threads through the rows of grapevines toward the ceremony, undulating like waves on the river. There is something unsettling about how it slithers across the ground toward the ceremony. It is not uncommon for fog to roll off the water, so I disregard my trepidation and return my focus to my sister.
Within the warded area, flashes of colorful light illuminate the four women. Ágota holds a silver chalice over her head, and the magic within glows with the colors and vibrancy of a rainbow. Enraptured, I watch as the spell pulses in time with Ágota’s heartbeat to illume her upturned face.
The mist reaches the coven and swirls up in a great wave to descend on the witches. The onslaught cannot penetrate the circle, and the fog thickens around the edges until it is difficult to see the ceremony. Sparks of magic glimmer deep within the haze, reminding me of lightning illuminating storm clouds.
As I watch with growing apprehension, wispy fingers of mist climb toward the sky as though seeking the apex of the ward to curl over the lip and reach down to grab my sister. Some aspect of the spell is awry, but none below seem to sense the danger. Perhaps it is my magic, stricken through with death, pain, and anger, that allows me to see the power rising to thwart my sister.
I press my hands to the window. The mist billows over the courtyard, obscuring my vision and hiding the witches. Panicked, I realize for certain Ágota and the coven are in danger. For the briefest of moments, I remember being a little girl helplessly watching her home be consumed in fire while hearing her mother scream, and that same sense of powerlessness washes over me.
Ágota is about to die.
Then I remember...
I am not a child.
I am not defenseless.
I am the Battlewitch.
I must act as one.
Drawing in a deep breath, I rest my hands against my heart.
“Guide me,” I intone.
I exhale my magic. A thick rope of inky darkness flows from my lips and slithers over the stone floor to wrap around my rose dagger resting on my bed. Immediately seizing the weapon, I follow the shadow as it takes on the form of a viper and glides across the floor.
The candles tucked into holders on the walls flicker wildly, yet the light they cast scarcely slashes the burgeoning gloom in every corridor and room. As I hurry down the spiral stairwell, my bare feet slip on the icy stone floor. When I arrive on the main level, the air is freezing and chills me to the bone. Frost forms on the high narrow windows of the great hall and, to my dismay, the hearth is cold.
Something is drawing the life from the castle.
Yet, somehow, I am unscathed.
The black vaporous serpent spirals through the air toward the doors that open to the courtyard. As it draws closer to the where tendrils of mist dare to venture beneath the heavy door, the spell does not diminish in strength, but grows in size. When I reach the serpent's side, it has the appearance of flesh, the black scales slick and glimmering in the dying candlelight. I rest my hand against its back to find it solid and cool to the touch. Twisting its head about to gaze at me, I observe its golden gaze. Since it is the manifestation of my magic it has taken on aspects of me from its inky black scales that match my hair to its amber eyes.
As one, we direct our attention to the mist pressing under the door. Leaning down, the snake laps at the magical intrusion with its forked tongue, tasting it.
The mist immediately withdraws.
Understanding sweeps through me, and I compel my power to return.
The serpent collapses into black vapor as I open my mouth to draw it once more into my body with a long inhalation. When the last bit is within me, I open the doors to the outside.
Instantly, the fog separates before me, forming a path. I stretch my hand out toward the haze, and again it shirks away. The mist has a purpose here, but it cannot touch me. The only conclusion I come to is my magic is offensive to it.
“You are familiar to me,” I say in wonder. “Why?”
I am unnerved by the sense that I have faced this foe before. I approach the spot where the circle of witches should be gathered as the mist continues to retreat before me. The bursts of magic have vanished, and the spell that Ágota had been forming has dissipated. The air is strangely stale and empty, reminding me of a grave. I reach out and summon forth a spark of flame to illuminate my path. The light only bathes my hands and wrists, leaving all else around me black as tar.
All this feels reminiscent of something I experienced once before, but cannot quite remember. Is this a foe my mother once vanquished?
I nearly stumble across Balázs in the dark and crouch to touch his face. I feel his breath on my palm, but he does not stir at my urging. All the witches are prone on the ground, their bodies still forming the circle. Though their powers are rapidly diminishing, the protection circle still holds. I press my hand against the ward. The protective shield resists at first before recognizing me as a member of the coven and allows me to enter.
Bending low to the ground, I hold out my palm, the tiny flame barely pressing back the ominous darkness. I find Henrietta first wrapped in a coil of mist. Gasping for breath, her eyes struggle to remain open against a force greater than her. My touch sends the mist spiraling upward.
Eyes fluttering, Henrietta whispers, “It has come to consume us.”
“What is it, Henrietta? Tell me!”
“A destroyer,” she answers.
“No!” I gasp.
Above me, a terrible creature issues a ragged howl of anguish. Rising, I observe what I could not before. A massive creature with many limbs and eyes—yet retaining the shape of a human—stands over me, clutching Ágota its claws.
A destroyer of the Witch World has come through the gateway.
Chapter 23
The destroyers of the Witch World consume all magic and life. They are creatures of destruction and death.
As am I.
In some ways, we are equal foes.
Perhaps that is why the destroyer does not attack straight away, but also why it does not cower. This strange turn of events confounds me. I detect my opponent’s magic scrutinizing me, evaluating me as a foe. The dark haze around it reaches toward me, then instantaneously retracts. It is an uneasy gesture which reveals that it fears me. Confidence swells in my chest, for it occurs to me that I must have an advantage the coven lacks for the destroyer to be so wary of my presence.
But what could that advantage possibly be?
Any dread I felt when I first observed
my sister in the clutches of the destroyer drains from my veins as rage flows through me, removing all doubts and fears. Although I am uncertain how I will defeat the destroyer, I shall. I am the Battlewitch. It is my nature to defend the coven, so I must trust my instincts to guide me to victory.
I failed my sister by standing aside and not participating in the ritual. When she opened the ley line between the estate and Gratz, there must have been a remnant of the portal that we had opened to the Witch World when we had called forth the estate. A pinprick in the Veil would have been enough to allow the destroyer to tear through the fabric between the two worlds. If I had stood at my sister’s side perhaps I would have been able to sense the impending danger and prevent her from completing the ritual. Though I am the Battlewitch, Ágota is the Archwitch and the strongest of us. If only I could awaken her so we could combine our power. Perhaps together we could defeat this destroyer. We are always stronger when unified.
“Ágota! Wake up and help me fight!”
My sister is unmoving, lost to the world, and I growl with frustration. I have defended my sister’s life in the past, but this foe is greater than any I have faced before.
“Run, Erzsébet, before you are destroyed,” Henrietta whispers out of the dark in a pained and weakened voice.
“I cannot abandon my coven and my sister.”
The blackness of the night is all-consuming, obliterating all the stars and the moon. The air is frigid and hard to breathe. The destroyer’s power taints the world around us, yet the fearsome monster does not approach me, nor does it retreat. We are at a stalemate. All the while, the destroyer is draining the magic from the coven, its spectral tentacles writhing as it feeds. The moans of the witches assail my ears, a distraction I do not need. I call upon the coldness within my soul that strengthens me for battle and allows me to kill without remorse. To defend the coven, I must be immune to their pleas for help.
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