The Ruin of Snow

by Lacy Sheridan

  I flipped the pages carefully, slowly, half fearing they would crumble to pieces if I handled them too roughly, and skimmed the heavy, dark script for anything helpful. The writing was archaic, difficult to get through even with my education, and a jolting mix of my native Selliiran and about five other languages I knew in varying levels of fluency. I found myself scraping at the back of my mind to translate languages I’d studied the basics of years ago and hadn’t needed to use since.

  My eyes were heavy and stinging by the time a phrase caught my eye—

  …And so it was ordered by the Lady that all who shared the lifeblood of Nalcai would pay for the magic in Their cursed hearts.

  I reread the entire page, but what might have mentioned how the magic was paid for was written in a language I didn’t know. I swallowed my frustration and started again, slowing.

  Past many Moons and Centuries came Nalcai’s final Death, and as She was spirited away into the cold She wept for Years gone. Only through the Beloved Lady’s mercy and love did she meet comfort, but it was not to last…

  The writing switched to the language of the far East, one I knew pieces of, and I could barely translate phrases that scarcely linked together.

  …by the break of day…

  …lest they find….

  I gave up and flipped the page, but the next was devoid of writing. In its place was an intricate illustration, a woman in a black cloak kneeling in front of a crypt. Despite the ages-old ink, her eyes shone with unshed tears, and the human heart clutched in one hand was chillingly real. Without thinking, I touched it, as if to be sure it was ink and not flesh and blood. It didn’t pulse beneath my fingers. I felt the worn-leather softness of the thin page. I turned it to the next.

  Almost blank, except for a few lines written in an old form of Selliiran—something I knew easily. The words sent another chill through me.

  Daughters of Nalcai see and hear this story. Under Lady’s Suns and Moons must the bane of magic be shed, lest it feast on the Love and Truth in the Soul, for whosoever follows the Dark shall give Her their weeping Heart.

  It was more or less what I’d been told all my life—or the version of it told by the Lady’s House. As witches we would be granted the Lady’s mercy should we bury our magic or let ourselves die to prevent it from passing on. I stared at the passage, rereading it again and again.

  Whosoever follows the Dark shall give Her their weeping Heart.

  Like a bone-chilling line of poetry. Or like a curse. A threat.

  Shed your magic or give your heart to the darkness. Nalcai wasn’t darkness, she was understanding and peace and power, but what exactly did she demand when she took a witch’s heart?

  Love and truth?

  Was that what I would give up tomorrow, when I took my full magic? Trade my soul for power?

  I pressed a hand over my heart. It beat strong and fast beneath my palm, quickening as my mind flashed through memories of my family.

  My mother’s touch, never rough but never quite loving. Stone-cold even in the blistering summer.

  Sarafine’s wicked greed and amusement, hidden but there, always ready to play the game. Always ready to win it, whatever the cost. Using others like chess pieces sacrificed for the queen.

  Even Tulia—white lace and kind eyes, but she’d never once hesitated to play.

  I wasn’t seeing these things this instant, I knew. I’d seen them all my life. But now the thought of them sank its way into my bones and made my pulse race.

  All I needed to do was to let go. Say yes, and be like them. A perfect, flawless witch. A weapon. Better than anybody else in Acalta—smarter, stronger, unburdened by the care they held for useless things.

  “Reading anything interesting, Neyva?”

  I peered over my shoulder to Sarafine, standing at the top of the steps and smoothing her skirt. I copied her easy smile.

  “One of the texts on Nalcai,” I answered lightly, turning to the page.

  She tilted her head to get a better look, and then went to the shelves in search of whatever she’d come for. “Ah, yes, I’ve read that one as well. Fascinating.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “When did you become interested in studying Nalcai’s life? I don’t remember you ever reading about her beyond what Mother taught us.”

  I closed the book, lifted it, and replaced it on its shelf. “Mere curiosity. There’s only so many hours I can spend making preparations for tomorrow before I need a break.”

  When I straightened, the book replaced as if it had never been moved, she was watching me with the barest hint of a smile. Like a cat would smile at a mouse. “You wouldn’t be beginning to doubt your magic, would you, sister?” she asked.

  I was Neyva Morningspell. Heart or no, magic or no, I was, and nothing would change that. My doubts were useless to me. I met her waiting eyes, shining like she knew she could rattle me, and put every bit of cat I had into the smile I returned. “Never.” I started down the steps.

  I felt her eyes burning into me all the way to the library door, but didn’t look back.

  Six

  I took a deep breath and sank into the steaming water, eyes closed. A part of me didn’t want to ever get out. Nalcai demanded a witch be pure and clean before the ritual began, but the angelica and acacia leaves floating in the water would draw in protection as well, and I couldn’t deny I’d like a little extra of that tonight. Magic swirled like wind through the house, the taste of it on my tongue a new constant. I’d never worried about my mother or sisters’ magic: if it was ever directed at me, it wasn’t to harm. But now I couldn’t stop the lingering thought.

  As long as I stayed here, I was safe, protected. There were no what ifs and no doubts in the bath, only peace and quiet and stillness. But the water would cool, and my family was waiting. I couldn’t stall long.

  I shouldn’t stall. It wasn’t a bad thing that was about to happen.

  Tomorrow morning, I’d wake up and wonder what the fuss was about. I’d be a full-powered witch and that would be it. I wouldn’t have to live with the ghost of Desmond lurking behind me or the gnawing, unending thoughts of what I was doing. I wouldn’t slip ever again.

  I stepped out of the bath. A towel was folded on the table to the side and I wrapped myself in it before stepping to the mirror.

  The glass was foggy, changing everything into faint, blurred colors. I raised one hand to wipe the condensation, but all that did was leave streaks of water behind. The image of my face was marginally clearer, but I looked the same as usual. Some part of me almost wanted to look different, like being washed clean and covered in the scent of herbs and magic would change me. Turn me into someone ready for this.

  I dried off, cinching the towel around my hair until the dark strands stopped dripping , and cast the towel aside to continue into the bedroom. A dress was hung out for me, the one Mother had picked. Far less extravagant than anything I was used to—no corsets or layers of skirts. A plain black gown that touched the floor, the bodice fitted and cut to reveal my shoulders, arms, and back. I tugged it on, trying not to tangle the loose skirt, and clasped the neck closed—a circle of fabric twisting together at the base of the throat like a collar.

  My reflection gazed at me from the full-length mirror, frowning. The dress’ fabric was thin enough that where it was taut over my stomach and swung around my legs I could see faint patches of skin. Certainly not the type of dress I would wear in public.

  With the strange dress stark against my pale skin and my hair damp and loose and wild, I was the echo of something out of a terrible children’s story. A monstrous woman who lurked deep in the forests and lured children to her cave to eat. Not like a pretty noble girl.

  I looked like a witch. Like a proper, ancient witch.

  A silver-studded wine glass was on the dresser/nightstand/vanity. I lifted it and swirled its dark contents. Another hour or two and it would be over. I wasn’t going to turn back at the last second. No matter the old book’s writings wh
ispering in my mind that I was giving up more than Desmond’s ghost.

  I was a witch. This was what witches did. And more than that, I was who I was. A killer. Killers didn’t receive the Lady’s grace, witches or not.

  And I liked being a killer. I liked the game.

  I downed the wine, replaced the glass, and exited my room. The house was dead silent as I walked, cold seeping through my bare feet. No servants around; they’d be shut tight in their little quarters tonight, pretending they didn’t know what was happening. No lanterns or candles were lit, but I knew my way. I could have navigated the house blind.

  The further I went, the stronger the taste of magic became, and it felt like I’d swallowed a mouthful of blood. It pressed on me like it meant to eat my newly purified flesh, eager and heavy. Goosebumps rolled down my arms.

  I rarely spent time in the sunroom. Mother liked to take tea there or check on the plants growing along one wall. The herbs and flowers we used for how they pulled and pushed at magic. I’d never felt the urge to spend a long time surrounded by the towering glass panes. But it was a tranquil, quiet space full of sunlight, welcoming to some.

  It was far from welcoming now. Quiet and tranquil, perhaps, but seeped in magic. Magic so strong that when I stepped through the door I swallowed instinctively to try and rid myself of the metallic taste. The rows of windows let in so much moonlight there were no need for lanterns. The table and chairs to one side were forgotten shadows, and the plants appeared to drift in a breeze I couldn’t feel. My mother and sisters waited in a line across from me, all clad in matching black demurer than my gown.

  Mother held a goblet in one hand and stepped forward when I’d closed the door. I met her in the middle of the room. “Are you pure?”

  Physically clean, and the leaves in the bath had helped wash away any lingering traces of recent casting. I was as pure as a witch could be. I nodded, breathless.

  “Good.” She dipped a finger into the goblet and the moonlight caught on its red sheen. I stood frozen as she drew her finger along my forehead, drawing a line in blood down the bridge of my nose, across my lips. “Close your eyes.” I felt her brush it across each eyelid, like a perverse type of makeup. It was unsettlingly warm and held a strange shock, like it was charged with electricity.

  Blood magic. Mother always said it was the one thing we were forbidden from using in our spells. Fire, wind, earth, water, yes—anything but flesh and blood. Not our own, at least. If we must use it, it was to belong to someone, anyone, else. But this was the blood of a witch.

  I wondered who had given it but didn’t ask. Didn’t let my eyes or magic wander toward my sisters in search of the answer either.

  Mother finished, leaving my skin tingling with the waiting magic, and ordered, “Kneel.” I opened my eyes and obeyed. The thin skirt of my dress fluttered with the movement. My sisters gathered candlesticks from the floor and crossed to us, each taking a side to set the candles in a circle around me. Each silver holder held a black taper. Sarafine stopped in front of me to place the last one down, eyes holding mine. A single red candle. Without a word she and Tulia moved to where they had been standing.

  Mother flicked her fingers, and one by one the candles lit, little flames sparking to life in a wave around me. Despite their size, heat radiated off them, chasing the night chill from my bare arms. My heart felt like it would burst.

  “Neyva Morningspell,” Mother began, slow and grave and powerful. I trembled at the way her voice worked around my name. “Do you call yourself a Daughter of Nalcai?”

  Daughters of Nalcai see and hear this story.

  I remembered hearing witches called by that name once or twice during my childhood. The same name the old book had used. The name Mother chose now. I forced the tremor out of my voice, forced it to be strong and sure. I was a Daughter of Nalcai, plain and simple. “Yes.”

  What story was I supposed to see and hear? That of Nalcai, of her banishment?

  “Do you thank Her for the gifts She has given you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now, as you come of age, do you ask that She judge you? See your loyalty and actions and reward or punish them?”

  Punish? Nobody had ever said anything about punishment.

  No matter. I was a Morningspell, and as talented as my sisters. More so. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Yes.”

  This was what I wanted. To be seen by Nalcai, to have the full power I deserved, that I had been born for. To be what I had been born to be.

  You didn’t need freedom when you held the entire world at your fingertips.

  “Let the flame judge you,” Mother said.

  I studied the red candle before me, at the flickering flame. I could feel my magic gathering at my fingertips as I reached for it. They brushed the flame and part of me wanted to yank them back on instinct, but I braced myself and held still.

  Heat, but no burn. A warmth pulled at me, curled around my wrist and melted my worry. I watched the flame flicker around my palm. No pain. The taste of magic increased so much I wished for the wine again to overpower it.

  Mother’s cool smile spread. “Nalcai, in all Her wisdom, has found you ready. What will you give her in recompense for the power you wish?”

  I knew the answer. I’d been told the answer to that question all my life, again and again. Every witch in the world answered that question the same way and it was no secret. The least secretive part of this whole ritual.

  But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, the book’s passage circled through my head.

  For whosoever follows the Dark shall give Her their weeping Heart.

  It was solely the way the House saw things. They were taught to hate Nalcai, as I’d been taught to thank her for the magic she brought to witches. It wasn’t a matter of Nalcai or the Lady, like the House believed. They could coexist, if this world would see magic for what it was. Not a curse or an abomination, but a gift and an art. I thought of Sarafine’s cold eyes. Mother’s distance all my life, never caring to be a mother, only a strict teacher. Blood caked beneath my fingernails.

  I had never minded any of it. It was normal. It was how life was for a witch, and I knew that. I’d embraced it, and I’d liked my little frosty, quiet paradise here, where magic wasn’t a death sentence. Why care now?

  Lest it feast on the Love and Truth in the Soul.

  Love and truth were no use to a witch. Love hurt you in the end, and truths were far less helpful than lies.

  So why couldn’t I say it?

  “Neyva.” My mother’s voice snapped me into the moonlit sunroom, the flame dancing beneath my palm. Not yet burning, but hotter. Her eyes were narrowed, a shadow of suspicion in them.

  I wet my lips. Two little words, that was all. Then I’d be done. “My—” My voice cut out.

  My heart.

  That was it.

  Mother’s mouth flattened into a thin line. I saw was the look in her eyes when she’d slapped me. Angry, but a cool and distant anger. No care for what she was doing or to whom.

  If that was what Nalcai meant to leave me as, did I want to give myself to her? I’d disobeyed. I’d jeopardized our family and safety. I knew that. But did I want to look at my own children like that?

  That was how children learned.

  “I give Her my…” I looked at my sisters, waiting. Sarafine folded her arms over her chest, one eyebrow raised. Tulia watched me with her brow furrowed. “My…”

  A shock of pain shot through my hand, and I jerked it from the candle. Mother frowned, but I saw something worse boiling in her eyes. I pushed myself to my feet, and my eyes flicked between the three of them. Mother to Sarafine to Tulia.

  I couldn’t do it. Not for all the magic in the world. Not if I wasn’t sure.

  I stepped aside and barely missed knocking over a candle. “Neyva,” Mother warned. Dangerous. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t,” I breathed. It slipped out, and I knew it was the end of things. If I didn’t do this, I wa
sn’t a witch. I wasn’t a Morningspell. I was—what was I? Nothing?

  “You can and you will.” No question, no other option.

  I could kneel again and make this right. Follow through with what I needed to do. But my legs wouldn’t move. I shook my head.

  I’d always been in control. All my life. Every minute of training, every job, every choice. Mine. Clear and easy and planned. Now my control was crumbling, and I couldn’t do anything to save it.

  “Neyva, you will continue this, and finish it.” It wasn’t an ordinary order; Mother’s voice dragged me like a siren song, tugging my throat and spine and making my knees shake. Magic wrapped around my chest and squeezed so I couldn’t breathe.

  “Nalcai judged me unfit, Mother,” I managed. The flame had burned. Only after I’d hesitated, but it had, and the message was clear. I wasn’t sure what I meant. Did I want Her to change Her mind?

  My head spun and my lungs wouldn’t work. Sarafine stepped closer and the magic in the air pressed heavier by the second. “Are you going to give up so easily, sister?” she asked, voice like silk.

  I couldn’t grasp my magic to use against theirs. I couldn’t find words to bring it to life. Every inch of me was rigid, screaming to run, to get away before this got worse. I was too aware of who the women in front of me were. Killers as much as I was, with more magic than I had.

  “Mother,” Tulia interrupted, making me jump. “Sarafine. Stop.”

  Sarafine shot her a scathing glare. “Tulia—”

  “No.” She crossed the room to me, and I stopped myself from flinching. I didn’t flinch from anything. “If she isn’t sure, give her a moment.”