Rise of the Darkwitch (The Dance of Dark and Light Book 1)

by Ziv Gray

  That meant little now. Her son was dead. It had all been for nothing. As they crept towards the great mound upon which the temple sat, Phen’s eyes brimmed with regret. The shadows would hide her tears. They would be her veil of mourning.

  The grand spire of the temple was edged in the final gold of the setting sun. Phen stopped again. Her throat closed. Mantos’s body is lying within. Braslen’s, too. How can I go on?

  When the female spun on her heel to berate Phen again, her anger fell away. Rage turned to comfort, and she went to Phen’s side. This time, the hand was gentle.

  ‘Do not despair,’ the female said. ‘I can bring your son back.’ At Phen’s wide-eyed look of terror, she shook her head. ‘I am no Darkwitch, but there is movement among the stars. Shadows are passing over us and we need the Light. Please, trust me.’

  Ignoring the instinct to flee, Phen nodded. What would I return to? Death at my son’s hands or death on the streets? There is no choice to make. She let the female lead her, ducking past the heavy presence of guards outside.

  The temple echoed in its emptiness, but the cavernous interior was filled with light. Candles and tapers burned bright on every surface, lined up on shelves, swirling in patterns on the floor. It was bright as day inside. And rightly so, for the Light would guide souls home.

  In the centre, directly under the vaulting spiral of the roof, two bodies lay on pyres, awaiting their rebirth in flame. The roof would open and their spirits would be released with the cleansing smoke.

  Without thinking, Phen ran. Her tattered skirts billowed around her stick-thin legs, her strength returning at the sight of her family. Her clothes ripped as she clambered up the funeral pyre, any exposed skin mauled by the kindling. When she reached the top, her limbs froze.

  Her husband, now an old male she barely recognised, and her son, a mirror of his brother, both lying in state.

  Dead. Cold.

  Phen’s body trembled, threatening to topple her from the pyre. She fell to her knees, sticks groaning under her weight. Splinters bit her legs, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Braslen... Mantos...’

  The names were little more than squeaks. The other female mounted the pyre beside her, her face set like carved marble.

  ‘I will carry your son,’ she said, crossing to Mantos’s prone form.

  ‘And... My husband?’ Phen asked.

  No change flickered over the female’s face.

  ‘I cannot bring him back,’ she said. ‘There was no sorcery in his death. The gods have called him and he must obey.’

  ‘Sorcery?’ Phen asked, her grief giving way to confusion. ‘Gods? What do you mean?’

  The female shook her head and returned her attention to extricating Mantos.

  ‘I don’t have time to explain,’ she snapped. ‘We must leave. There is a ship waiting for us.’

  ‘A ship? To where? You must tell me—’

  The female turned with such ferocity that Phen recoiled, scrabbling back to the edge of the pyre.

  ‘Listen to me,’ the female hissed, her eyes flickering from brown to grey and back again. ‘I can bring your son back, and perhaps even help to save the spirit of your other son. I need your help to do it, but it will all be for nothing if we do not leave now. So hold your tongue and do as I say!’

  Her inbuilt reaction to fight back burned, but Phen kept her mouth shut. Instead, she clambered down from the pyre and watched as the female hefted Mantos’s body over her shoulders. Then she leapt to the floor with the grace of silk.

  What is this creature? Phen asked. Who are you?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Middlemerish

  Shaking her head, Emmy huffed.

  ‘No, that’s wrong.’

  Charo glanced up, bewildered. The ties of her mella pants hung like limp straw. She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing!’

  ‘That’s clear,’ Emmy replied.

  Giggling, Charo thrust the ties into Emmy’s claws.

  ‘You do it!’

  Emmy gladly acquiesced.

  Her chamber was a mess of coloured fabric. Clothing was strewn over the bed frame and pooled on the floor, an eruption of memories from a dusty trunk. I haven’t seen most of this in a decate, Emmy thought. I’ve rarely had anything to celebrate…

  But this Middlemerish festival was different. It meant something, and Emmy’s determination burned. I’ll make it special. I have to.

  Charo wasn’t as impressed by the scenario.

  ‘I don’t like these,’ she said, plucking at the wide-legged pants. ‘They’re not a northern thing.’

  Emmy tutted.

  ‘Does the north know anything?’ she asked, mirth swirling in her eyes. ‘It sounds like a different world.’

  ‘In a lot of ways, it was,’ Charo replied.

  Tying the pants in elaborate knots, Emmy chuckled. The legs were split from knee to waist and left the lower legs exposed, a deliberate design to showcase the intricate ribbons of Metakalan footwear.

  ‘I’m surprised I can remember how to do this,’ Emmy said as she worked, pulling the laces round and round, winding them in looping knots.

  Done, she picked a bulky package from the bed and pressed it into Charo’s hands.

  ‘Here. You’ll need these.’

  Unwrapping the cloth, Charo’s jaw fell.

  ‘New shoes!’ she said. ‘Just like yours!’

  A warm wave of pleasure flowed through Emmy at her friend’s elation. Charo’s arrival had been unexpected, but now, not unwelcome. Since coming to the apothecary, she had taken the brunt of Krodge’s vitriol. To her, it meant nothing. To Emmy, it meant everything. To get through my day without the crone screeching in my ear, or hitting me, or belittling me… She ducked her head to hide her smile. It means more than Charo can know.

  Charo set the wooden sandals on the floor and stepped into them.

  ‘How do you wear the ribbons?’ she asked, eyeing them warily.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Emmy replied.

  Gathering the red ties, she arranged them in a graceful criss-cross. Satisfied, she stood.

  ‘There. You’re done.’

  Charo took in the outfit, wiggling her clawed toes.

  ‘It looks beautiful,’ she said.

  Emmy fetched a polished plate and held it up, giving Charo a better look.

  ‘It looks beautiful on you.’

  The younger female stepped forward, placing tentative claws on the shining brass.

  ‘Is that me?’ she asked.

  Emmy nodded.

  ‘It is,’ she said. ‘You look wonderful.’

  Charo’s skin had gained a lustrous hue, and her fronds sprouted red and thick. The shine of her green armour made her scars fade away.

  ‘I can’t believe that’s me,’ Charo said, her words low. ‘Thank you.’

  In the plate, her eyes found Emmy’s. Waving off the thanks, Emmy set it aside.

  ‘I’m not done,’ she said, ‘so don’t thank me yet.’

  Reaching for a smaller package, a smaller wrapping of soft cloth, Emmy smiled.

  ‘I hope you like it.’

  Charo accepted the bundle, blinking. She waited, her talons poised.

  ‘Open it,’ Emmy said.

  Needing no further encouragement, Charo undid the wrapping. The cloth unfurled like a soft flower, revealing the precious surprise inside.

  ‘Oh, my…’ Charo breathed.

  In her hands rested a headdress, wrought of spun silver. Its loops and coils were strung with red and yellow stones, polished to a high sparkle. Charo looked up, struggling for words.

  ‘Emmy, this is… It’s…’

  Saying nothing, Emmy placed the headdress on Charo’s horns, arranging the stones in a gentle flow. She stepped back, surveying her work with a wide smile.

  ‘You can’t go out on Middlemerish without a headdress,’ she said, ‘so there you are.’

  She could have said more, but she didn’t. Instead, she slotte
d her own headdress over her horns, peering in the plate to arrange them.

  ‘I’ve never worn this,’ she said. ‘I bought it a few cycles ago, thinking I’d get the chance to go out once I’d gendered.’ Her laugh was cold. ‘How wrong I was. But, now I get to wear it at last.’ She turned to Charo. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I am, too,’ Charo replied, her claws endlessly plucking at her clothes. ‘I always wanted to go to a celebration.’

  ‘Today will be a good day,’ Emmy declared. ‘It’ll make up for all those cycles of nothing.’ Emmy raised an eyeridge and smirked. ‘Zecha wants to give you a wonderful first Middlemerish. He has a good heart, if not always a clear head.’ Not to mention, he’s grown quite fond of you. ‘Do you remember what to do when we arrive?’

  Nodding fervently, Charo grinned.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have to give the traditional greeting. I remember it.’

  ‘Good, good. Now, let’s go,’ Emmy said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

  Not sparing Krodge a farewell, they strode into the intense sun.

  The Central Circle was a hive, full of colourful revelry. Every patch of grass and cobble was covered. There were food and drink stalls, jugglers, bards, and even a few rolling stages, from where companies of travelling actors plied their trade. Flocks of gargons flew overhead, leathery creatures that carried messages of celebration to and fro across the town. They hooted out hoarse cries, the sound mingling with the cacophony of music and merrymaking.

  However, all the noise and colour and action was still not enough to camouflage the strangeness of Emmy and Charo. Passers-by stopped to stare as they emerged from the apothecary.

  ‘It’s the Darkwitch.’

  ‘And she’s with that slave.’

  ‘Filthy, both of them.’

  Emmy kept her chin up and her back straight, letting the words wash over her. They don’t know what they’re talking about, she thought. They don’t deserve my attention. Charo had lit with excitement from the moment Zecha suggested a celebration. Emmy had no intention of letting some fool’s insult ruin the day. As they strode forward, and the crowd parted.

  They passed through a sea of whispers. Emmy tried not to smirk. Despite being loathed, fear granted a certain power—when it didn’t make her cripplingly insecure. Charo glanced around, a little behind Emmy but close to her shoulder. Many of the looks were directed at her. Infamous enough in the town as the stranger who almost died, her status as a former slave turned many heads.

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ Emmy said. ‘They’re not worth your notice.’

  Charo nodded, but the fear on her face did not abate.

  The walk to Zecha’s rented rooms was short. The house was lopsided, a wooden structure that looked like it was held together by hope alone. Zecha waited for them at the ramshackle gate, an easy smile on his face. Beside him was a smaller male, who Emmy recognised as Zecha’s landlord, Mr Charber. He looked at Zecha with indulgent eyes. Zecha beckoned them towards the house and gripped their forearms in turn. Charber did the same.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ Zecha said, as if the house was his own.

  Emmy accepted their embraces. Charber was pleasant enough, had never insulted her, was quiet, and kept to himself, so his touch was tolerable.

  There was a pause as they waited. Emmy tapped Charo’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Charo said. She composed herself to recite the traditional greeting. ‘Thank you for inviting us to your home on this most joyous occasion.’

  Emmy patted her arm.

  ‘Well done,’ she whispered.

  Zecha grinned all the wider.

  ‘The pleasure of your company makes this day great,’ he replied.

  His eyes lingered longer on Charo than on Emmy. It didn’t go unnoticed, and Charo flushed. Emmy watched the interplay, the flirtation as strange to her as the feel of the headdress on her horns.

  With the formalities over, Charber ushered them to a long grassy area at the rear of the house, which was well-cultivated with vegetables. The smell of roasting meat floated through the air long before they saw the fire pit in the middle of the yard. A thin male shimmered through the smoke, turning a glistening animal on a spit. With a splutter, Mr Charber scuttled to him, lecturing about the appropriate speed for handle-turning. The male did not seem concerned.

  Zecha led Emmy and Charo to an area away from the crackling fire. Several plump cushions were spread on the ground, nestling in the shade of a thick-trunked tree. Some folk sat there already, other tenants and neighbours. Though Emmy settled apart from them, a few still threw her filthy looks. Younglings of mixed ages played a game of chase, but they stopped to stare, slack-jawed, as the Darkwitch sat among them. Emmy was sorely tempted to flick a few stones in their direction.

  The smell of the meat drifted on the warm breeze. Emmy wiped sweat from her brow. The Merish day was stifling, and the fire didn’t help. Even the meagre shade from the tree did little to comfort them. Emmy watched as the cook laboured in the heat, using a rusty hook to fish a large pot from a nook in the flames.

  Glancing upwards, she peered through her claws at the blueness beyond the leaves. Then Zecha appeared with three cups of sweet wine.

  ‘When was the last time you went to a Middlemerish Festival?’ he asked as he passed them around.

  He fell onto a cushion, arranging his legs and tail underneath him.

  ‘I don’t know if I ever went to one,’ Emmy replied. She swirled the wine. Sunlight edged the ripples. ‘If I ever was, I was no older than a hatchling.’ She drank. ‘Anyway, I didn’t much want to go to festivals, considering how folk treated me,’ she added, casting a side-long glance at the other guests. ‘I knew I’d be stared at more than the actors and clowns.’

  Zecha’s face puckered with anger and sorrow.

  ‘Well, that’s the past,’ he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He raised his cup to the small gathering. ‘To peace in our time, to friendship, and to keeping the Masvams at bay,’ he said.

  The toast was meekly met, though Charo and Emmy joined in with pleasure.

  A tinkling bell sounded, declaring the feast ready. Zecha was up and back with three servings before Emmy could blink. He gave each of them a thin wooden plate, heaped high with carved slices meat, vegetables, bread, cheese—everything that made a feast great.

  Good food and good drink flowed freely, and as the sun began to sink below the horizon, the little group turned their attention to the skies. The goddess’s three faces were upon one another, and it was time to spread the Light.

  As was tradition, Bellim bought fireworks from the Belfoni for an elaborate Middlemerish display. The brighter the celebrations were, the happier the goddess’s faces would be. The more they talked to one another, the stronger their power, and the more likely they would answer the folks’ prayers.

  Soon enough, the first deep boom resounded beneath their chest-plates, and the wine-loosened crowd cheered in anticipation. But there was no brightly coloured eruption.

  Emmy sat up, listening.

  ‘What’s going—?’

  The rest of her sentence was lost under another deafening boom—and another. Emmy shared a sharp glance with Charo and Zecha, before the three leapt to their feet and tore out to the street. Another explosion split their ears. The air sizzled.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Zecha asked.

  Emmy’s throat was empty, her mouth dry. Faces appeared in windows and coils of females churned in confusion. Then, fast and heavy footfalls tore towards them. A burly female reached them, waving her arms.

  ‘In the name of the Goddess,’ she cried, breathless, ‘we’re being attacked!’

  With those words, the bottom fell out of Emmy’s world.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Finished Her Off, I Did

  The air filled with harrowed screams. The screeches were punctuated with booming explosions. The stinging taste of panic tainted the air like sulphur as males and f
emales clattered along the streets, erratic as snow on the wind. Emmy watched as females of all ages and sizes gathered, armed with any weapon they could lay their claws on. Some were middle-aged with thickening waists, wielding swords from long-ago days in the King’s army. Others, who had never seen military service, grasped clubs and kitchen knives, looking no less determined. Zecha disappeared into Charber’s house and reappeared with a sweeping bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. He motioned for the other male tenants and guests to go into the house. The females were already gone.

  ‘You’ll be safer inside,’ Zecha said.

  Mr Charber nodded and herded the rest back into the house, bustling and clucking as if they were curious children and there was nothing to worry about.

  ‘We need to get to the apothecary,’ Emmy said, heading towards the crowd. ‘We should gather what we can. We can escape, head for the Wailing Woods.’ She passed her claws through her fronds, ignoring Charo’s blanch at the name. ‘We might be safe there for a while, at least until this passes.’

  ‘Emmy,’ Zecha said, ‘we could be killed trying to make our way through the crowd.’ He jerked an elbow at the swirling maw. ‘Only the Goddess knows how many enemies are out there, whoever they are.’

  ‘I think we know who they are, Zecha,’ Emmy said. ‘It can only be the Masvams. They’ve come at last, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.’

  Zecha paled under his dark armour and nodded, silenced by Emmy’s logic. Charo gripped Emmy’s arm.

  ‘You’re right, Emmy,’ she said. ‘If we stay here, we don’t stand a chance. If we try to leave, we might be safe.’

  With the weight of the others’ eyes on him, Zecha relented.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But let’s try not to get ourselves killed.’

  The sky darkened. The streets pulsed with panic and fear as the trio wound through the swirling crowds. As they reached the end of Charber’s street, the vista opened into the large space of the Circle, and Emmy’s chest tightened. From there, they could see right down to the port. Clear as glass, there were the three towering Masvam ships, silhouetted against the inky sky.