Fire Heart
Magic and Mage Series Episode 2
Angharad Thompson Rees
Contents
1. Fire Heart
2. Hidden Meanings
3. A Leaf from a Book
4. A Calling
5. To Belong
6. The West Winds
7. The Hilt of a Sword
8. A Low Blow
9. An Amber Eye
10. A Pile of Earth
11. Marionette
12. A Different Kind of Magic
13. Angelfire
14. Fallen
15. Undoing
16. Blood Oaths
17. A Witch’s Steed
18. A Stronger Heartbeat
19. Putrid Puddles
20. Questions
21. Inner Truth
22. An Empty Space
23. Kill the Witch
24. To The Death
25. Sisters of Three
26. Blood and Bone
27. A New View
Epilogue
Also by Angharad Thompson Rees
About the Author
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1
Fire Heart
Amara held the power of the world between her hands; the strength of raging oceans and the whisper of growing flowers both. With delicate fingers, the young witch condensed the power into a clear glowing orb—a sphere the color of tears that coalesced in her palms. A smile flickered at the corner of her lips and she clasped her hands together, hiding the magic from her watching sisters. Then, lowering her lips to her cupped hands, Amara incanted—drawing old words from old places. Blowing onto her fingertips, she opened them like a petal to the morning sun. And from her hands, flew a butterfly, its wings as blue as a robin’s egg.
Her sister Fae delighted, reaching out for the butterfly as it fluttered around her golden hair. Her ice-blue eyes followed the creature as it looped and twirled and danced over the summer meadow.
“Better, Amara,” said Mother, no delight in her voice. Just cool approval as her middle daughter cast. Fae, youngest, all spring air and happiness, nodded with mock seriousness before side-eyeing her sister.
“You have set a tough challenge, I will have to work hard to beat that!” said Fae, though the smile on her face conveyed that she already had something magical in mind.
“Wait,” Amara said, middle sister, serious, dark and brooding. She raised an eyebrow. “I am yet to finish.”
Amara lifted an elegant hand, the long sleeve of her ebony dress falling past her elbow to trail the soft grass below. The butterfly flew to her like a jaunty, happy tune, and alighted upon her fingers. At her touch it multiplied, two, three, six, a dozen butterflies of every color flourished around her, creating a gentle breeze of fluttering wings. By the time Amara turned to her mother to check her assessment, thousands of butterflies danced in the quiet midday sun, and her mother’s face exploded into a rare grin.
“Stupendous, Amara! That’s my girl.” She clapped her hands together like an excited child, and continued, her voice full of wonder. “That’s my clever witch.”
Amara took a deep bow like a master showman completing his pièce de résistance and stepped aside for her youngest sister Fae to take her place on the stage of meadow grass and bluebells.
“No,” Mother said, turning to Morganne, eldest sister. “You need to try.”
Morganne sighed, turning away. “I’ve already tried, as you well know, and nothing happens—ever.”
“Then try harder,” Mother ordered, commanding Morganne with one angry finger. “Here. Now.”
Morganne rose with a heavy sigh, tossing a knot of daisies she had been fumbling between her fingers, to the ground.
“Mother, there is little point. I have in common with my sisters nothing but the same birthdate. We may be triplets in blood, but not in magic. I don’t know why you keep putting me through such torture.”
“I do it for you to learn. Now, try.”
Morganne stared at her hands, her pale, pale hands adorned with freckles and hopelessness.
Breathe, she thought to herself, trying to center her focus. She closed her emerald eyes and imagined the power of nature coursing through her blood to her fingertips.
Yet she felt no change.
She willed magic to her palms, please, she begged in the quiet of her mind, but not an ounce of power rose from her blood to the surface of her skin. She stopped trying, but kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see the look of disappointment on her kin’s faces.
“That’s enough,” Mother said, her voice laced with displeasure.
Morganne gulped, opening her eyes but diverting them from stares she could feel penetrating into her worthless, non-magical soul.
When she did glance up, Mother shook her head. Fae attempted a weak smile of condolence, and Amara turned away, embarrassed.
“As you were, Fae,” Mother said, her voice stern with vexation. “Morganne, sit down and pay attention instead of fiddling with daisy chains or staring off into nothingness.” Mother’s attention turned back to Fae, opening her hands to welcome her youngest daughter to begin.
Fae, abashed by her eldest sister’s reprimand, concentrated while the gentle river babbled alongside her; summer birds and busy wrens fluttered overhead, chasing Amara’s butterflies away. But Morganne, eldest sister, once the voice of reason, did not stay to see what her other clever little sister could do. She did not stay to observe what her witch heart sister cast with magic and beauty and that old, old power. Instead, she rose from her cross-legged position, tied her unkempt, flowing red locks into a scruffy knot at the base of her neck, and walked barefoot toward home.
“Morganne!” Her mother called. Demanded. “Stay here. You may learn something from your younger siblings. Fae has such delicate accuracy with her casting, not as flamboyant as Amara perhaps, but her technique is faultless.”
Morganne bit the words flaming in the back of her throat like wildfire and burning dreams. Morganne was powerless, and as her mother focused back to Fae, with an illusion surrounding her youngest sister of snowy mountain peaks and white skipping foxes shimmering under the midday sun, she realized she was not only powerless but pathetic too.
Nobody tried stopping her as she meandered home alone. Nobody even noticed she had gone.
2
Hidden Meanings
Morganne peeked from behind the curtain, double and triple checking neither sisters nor Mother wandered toward home. She scoffed at the thought. Why would they bother to come home? They lost hours upon hours magic-making in that meadow, and Morganne felt she lost hours of her life there watching her special sisters perform—or rather, watching her mother’s love for them grow. The only thing Morganne seemed capable of achieving was an increase in pity from her sisters and growing disappointment from her mother’s eyes. Neither of which filled the gaping hole within her that ached to hold the elusiveness of her family bloodline.
Magic.
With this thought, Morganne bit a trembling lip that quivered with the same old symphony.
Why not me?
Morganne chided herself for such petulant thoughts. There had to be a way to discover magic, and she was sure the way rested in the book her mother allowed her sisters to read, but not her.
Breath held, she took tentative steps into her mother’s bedroom, checking over her shoulder as the wooden door creaked behind her. Eyes wide, she tiptoed to the wooden chest at the bottom of her mother’s bed. It was strangely ornate and out of place in their humble dwelling. Gold flourishes adorned each corner in decorative splashes, as if liquid gold solidified as it splashed, causing eru
ptions of cascading, golden waves. It looked like it came from another time, another world perhaps.
It must be worth a king’s ransom, Morganne thought, stroking the huge golden keyhole at the center. She tested the lid, and though heavy, it opened without complaint. It was, of course, unlocked. Morganne sensed a twang of guilt in the hollow in her stomach that made her look over her shoulder again. Discovering the chest was unlocked, that her mother trusted her with such secrets, quickened Morganne’s pulse all the more.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Still, she heaved, opening the thick wooden trunk with a grunt.
A sudden thump on the ground beside her caused Morganne to gasp and let go of the lid. It whomped back down, sending wafts of old air and ancient magic into the darkening room.
“Oh!” Morganne said, her hand at her pumping heart. “It’s you.”
Shadow, the household cat, eyed her suspiciously and padded toward her, tail rigid and upright. He curled around Morganne, his black fur shining like obsidian stone as she petted him to calm her nerves. She went for the lid again, and the cat mewed; a short, sharp pitch of warning. Morganne shook her head at him.
“Oh, come on, I’m not stealing anything. I’m looking.”
She ignored his whines and shooed him away when the cat clambered onto her lap. Morganne hoisted the lid for the second time and, checking over her shoulder for the third time, rummaged beneath the woolen blankets and bedclothes.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” she uttered, then her fingers found the leather spine. She did not need magic for its presence to shock her, causing her hand to retract for but a second. Her fingertips tingled for a moment… with magic. She sighed. Magic was not something she could describe; magic was a feeling. As if the air became lighter, and light became brighter. Or like the sensation between dreaming and waking, those few short magical seconds of an entirely different reality, where time stands still and merges with infinite possibilities. This was the feeling she had now as her fingers grazed the leather tome.
Shadow wailed.
Morganne smiled, and the book within her hands moaned as she brought it into the candlelight.
“The Cheval Book of Shadows,” Morganne whispered, her fingers hovering over her surname.
Shadow skulked away, giving up his warning—giving up on Morganne. Cats are like that. He hopped onto the window frame and slithered through the open window, disappearing into the evening hue and leaving Morganne, eldest sister, once the voice of reason, with a burden she was yet to realize she carried.
Each page she turned seemed to sigh as if waking from a century-long sleep. The parchment yellowed and dog-eared, the ink faded to a light gray as she took in the illustrations, symbols, and ancient, ancient spells.
“This is magnificent,” Morganne said, gulping down her awe and excitement. Why has Mother not let me study from this book? Possibilities surged around the hollow of her stomach, the desperate place where she yearned and ached for the magic—and the hope to bring her sisters back close.
She spoke as she read, “Dark Power Herbal and Plant Associations…” she screwed up her nose a little and continued turning the pages. “Consecration of the Dark Aspect Tool…”
She pulled a face without realizing and shook her head. “What are these spells? Ah—” She bent double over the book, her nose only inches from the age-old page that smelt of forgotten secrets. “Spell Casting and Bindings—The Ancient Rituals.”
Flicking through the pages she smiled, there were spells for love, spells for beauty, spells for good health and wealth. The handwriting changed between spells and sometimes notes added by another hand appeared in the margins, presumably to enhance or improve them; like family recipes passed down from generation to generation.
Soon, the spells became darker, written in what once may have been a red ink, now faded to flesh pink. The handwriting grew unsteady and spidery; spells to uncover lies, spells for revenge. None of these interested Morganne. Urgency smothered her as she continued to search, no longer worrying she may tear or harm the fragile pages as she raced through the book.
“Where is it? There’s got to be a spell here somewhere to…” she gasped. “A Spell to Bind Magic. That’s it! That’s got to be it! I could bind magic to myself!”
Morganne let the book rest on her knees while she clasped her hands over her heart. She made a silent prayer and a whisper of a smile. Her fingers traced the title of the spell.
“Wait, oh no!” Her heart dropped several inches. “No, no… No!”
Below the title was a jagged line she had failed to see in her haste—a tear, right across the page, to expose the spell beneath for something else entirely. She flipped the tiny sliver of paper, exposing several more pages torn from the book.
The binding spell was gone.
“Morganne!” her mother’s voice screamed; a mixture of dread and hurt and fear that sounded only like anger and hate. “What are you doing with my grimoire?”
In two strides, her mother was upon Morganne, ripping the book from her clutches. Morganne scrambled to her feet, flustered.
“I’m sorry… I was—”
Mother struck her face, slapping the words of apology from her mouth with a piercing sting.
Mother and daughter stared at one another in disbelief. Fae and Amara, rushing to the bedroom and the raised voices, covered their mouths in horror at the threshold.
“Oh dear child, I am sorry,” Mother sobbed, throwing the book to her bed and pulling Morganne into a tight embrace. Morganne remained as rigid as stone beneath her mother’s arms. “It’s the book. It’s a terrible book. And a very dangerous thing for those who don’t know how to wield its power.”
Morganne took three deep breaths, composing herself and willing her tears away before she spoke. “Then pray, why would you have such a thing? Why would you let my younger sisters read it and not I?”
Her mother pulled back, holding the top of Morganne’s arms. She smiled, sympathetically, then flicked a glance to her magical daughters standing in the doorway. “Morganne,” she began, “you don’t possess magic, so I’m afraid it’s something you will not understand.”
The words stabbed at her heart.
“Oh, I understand. I understand exactly,” Morganne spat, pulling away and striding from the room, the shape of her mother’s hand flaming with rage and fury against her bruising cheek.
3
A Leaf from a Book
“I still cannot believe Mother hit you,” Fae cooed, moving Morganne’s flame red hair from her cheek to inspect the bruise.
“And neither can I believe you would rummage through her things like that,” Amara added, a scowl between her thick black brows.
Morganne shot her a glare. “If it is such a terrible artefact, then why should Mother keep it in the house? Allow you to read from its pages?” she asked, but her guilt rose as anger, and her words were full of spite. “Besides, I thought grimoires were family heirlooms, notes passed on from generation to generation.”
Amara softened then, a little. Her serious black eyes staring into darker thoughts. She paced the bedroom floor the three girls shared, feet muffled on the sheepskin rug. “Yes, you’re right. And that’s the big question, isn’t it? Why is the book such a terrible thing, and why has she not warned Fae and I about its power?”
“And why are the pages and spells ripped from the book, like you mentioned?” Fae pondered.
Morganne’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to say neither of you can tell, even with hearts full of magic?”
Amara blew out a breath in frustration. Fae took Morganne’s hand. “Magic isn’t a cure-all, dear sister. It cannot do all things, solve all problems.”
“Well, it would solve mine!” Morganne despised the jealousy in her own voice. She shook her head. “I am sorry, sister, I do not mean to bite at you, either of you.” She turned to Amara once more and attempted a half smile; but she still could not find it within herself to forgive her middle sister for lying to her, fo
r making Morganne believe she had magic when she had none. “I just want us to be back the way we were, sisters of three.”
“But of course we’re still sisters,” Amara said, as serious as thunder. Beside her, Fae nodded like a gentle breeze. Morganne turned away, sensing the pulsating magic within her sisters, making her own heart feel both heavy and empty in comparison.
“But it is not the same, is it? You spend so much time together casting and practicing your spells. And Mother takes not one look at me anymore other than to chastise me or worse.” She gestured to her bruised cheek. “I see the disappointment in her eyes—no, let me finish Amara—I see that same disappointment in your eyes, too.”
Amara turned away then, unable to hold her stare, because like it or not, her sister spoke the truth. Silence engulfed them for several long heartbeats, so when Morganne spoke again, even though in a whisper, her words boomed in the darkening gloom.
“I would do anything for magic, absolutely anything,” Morganne whispered.
A candle snuffed out on the windowsill.
“Do not say such a thing,” Fae said, concern wrapped around every word. She clasped her sister's hand and shook her head, glancing at the candle from the corner of her eye. Blue smoke swirled from the wick, trailing toward them.
Amara said nothing, and instead, stared at the moon from the bedroom window. It was but a sliver in the dark sky—a slice of a wicked smile in the midnight hour. And she did not altogether trust the message it conveyed to her, but she repeated it all the same. “Perhaps there is something we can do to help you get magic, perhaps…” she trailed off, her blood pumping to the tune of something is wrong; it gnawed at her bones but her sister, her poor eldest sister stared back so hopelessly it was pitiful.
Fire Heart (Magic and Mage Series Book 2) Page 1
